


50

by hellhoundsprey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Office, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blood and Injury, Bondage, Bottom Dean, Caning, Chastity Device, Choking, Dean Has an Eating Disorder, Dissociation, Dom Sam, Dubious Consent, Enemas, Fucking Machines, Gaslighting, Jealousy, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Manipulation, Obsessive Sam, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay, Orgasm Denial, Past Rape/Non-con, Possessive Sam, Praise Kink, Sensory Deprivation, Sounding, Spanking, Sub Dean, Top Sam, Vomiting, Waxing, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2018-05-12 14:00:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 26
Words: 163,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5668567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson fall in love.<br/>(Very loose adaption of "Fifty Shades Of Grey" by E. L. James inside a very loose adaption of the world in 04x17 "It's A Terrible Life".)</p><p><a href="http://hellhoundsprey.tumblr.com/post/110160508429/so-the-50-shade-of-grey-relationship-is-abusive">Original prompt</a> (not for me but hey): So the 50 Shade of Grey relationship is abusive, so I immediately thought about you and wincest. Could you imagine an unrelated wincest with Sam as Mr Grey and Dean as Anastasia Steel that they know each other with an interview and the began this relationship with Sam that control every aspect of Dean's life like what he eat or who talk to, and Dean trying to get out of the relationship without any result and eventually falling in. </p><p>(<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jj_PRxt784s&list=PLRa-8ZSOcdns6RZG0nGPNWuXRPIhH5Mjj">Soundtrack</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [soullessbrothers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soullessbrothers/gifts).



> Some quick things before we start:
> 
> 1\. Even though it might start slow, this story ultimately revolves around an **abusive relationship** ; please keep that in mind. If you are looking for a "cute sub turns mean dom into a sensitive carebear" kind of fic, this here is not your cup of tea.  
> 2\. Tags will be added as the story progresses in order to avoid spoilers, so check them every now and then to ensure your safety.  
> 3\. In terms of in-character and ooc behavior, I'd like to stress that the protagonists here are Sam Wesson and Dean Smith, not Sam Winchester and Dean Winchester. They are **not** the same people and do **not** have the same personalities. I reinforced/-interpretated what I perceived in 04x17, mixed in some Mr. Grey and Ms. Steele - and so I wrote. This is an AU.
> 
> Okay. Are you ready? Are you okay? Then let's go.

Glass fronts, surgically enhanced secretaries; no plants. This here, of course, is a manager's office and Dean is not naïve enough to think that he will get an office this spacious just yet. What counts though is that this is where some good, solid months could _get_ him. He likes the idea of a mahogany desk like this one. They gave him a similar one at his last job when they sensed he was about to resign. If the desk would have been as brilliant as this one, he might have considered staying.

"Stanford," Wesson notes.

Dean knows what that soft smile means. At this level of the food chain, the variety in degrees and visited colleges is limited down to a handful. "Indeed," he smiles, "Class oh-five. You?"

A short glance up from Dean's resume. "Oh-six."

Dean nods his respects. He did his homework and knows that Mr. Samuel Wesson, head of Courtman and Styles' HR, is four years younger than him. Intimidating to some, maybe, but interviews are one of Dean's unofficial hobbies. Today's is going great so far and he is confident he'll ace it. His self is Dean's most valuable product. He will sell it.

"Three point two GPA. Not bad, Mr. Smith."

"Good work equals good results."

The smile broadens. Wesson's suit looks really nice. Once Dean receives his first paycheck, he might ask for that tailor's contacts.

"So, tell me, Mr. Smith." Wesson puts the application papers down. Before he looks straight into Dean's eyes, he folds his hands and lets his elbows point outwards as wide as he can. Cheap trick, actually, but with a build like that he definitely makes it work. "For the position of director of sales and marketing... why should we hire _you_?"

With his legs crossed and his hands neatly placed on his upper knee, leaned back in this ridiculously expensive chair, Dean could not have created a better frame for the answer to this question. "Because I am the man you need." 

~

Naturally, papers are signed one week later. The former director has yet to sort out some issues, so Dean is free for another four days. Nothing he is particularly fond of, to be honest; he _enjoys_ work. After going through some first documents he was entrusted with, it's only twelve AM of day one. If there was something in his apartment that he could take care of or clean, he would - but no. The move has been uncomplicated and the building has been renovated only a few months ago. No leaky pipes, no creaking windows, no nothing.

He swings by CS' to ask Rhonda, his stunning and absolutely ice-cold secretary, if there is a chance he could make himself useful. She raises one of her meticulously plucked eyebrows at him. "Sir, if you're so... 'energetic', I advise you to spend your efforts on the gym. You know, while you still have the time for that." She's certainly got a point there.

Courtman and Styles offers various benefits for their employees. Since most of the higher ranks are occupied by second and third generations of economical moguls who can easily afford entire penthouses full of professional machines and personal trainers, it does not necessarily make sense to Dean that there is an enclosed VIP (aka management) section in the company's internal gym. Most of the executives Dean has met rather look like they in fact first-hand-witnessed Black Thursday than ever even coming close to an elliptical trainer.

A staff member shows him around and Dean has him explain every machine, even though he is familiar with most of them. It fills time, he figures, and it doesn't do harm to refresh his memory. They create a four day split that Dean intends to follow once work gets going. For now, he decides to spend some hours here, maybe attend the pool and sauna, too. Whatever keeps him busy.

As he expected, the halls are not crowded. Meaning: he is the only present person. Some machines here, some free exercises there, and it's five PM. After insisting on taking a look at the nutrient list himself, Dean has a short break and treats himself to some plant-based protein shake they assured him is completely fat-free. To their defense (and Dean's relief): it indeed is.

"Smith!"

"Mr. Wesson; sir." He gets up and they shake hands. The man is practically bouncing on his heels, reminding Dean more of his three year old niece than this actual six feet four giant.

"Blowing off some steam?"

"Well, yeah." Dean pats down his soaked through t-shirt and laughs politely. "Might as well get my head free as long as CS isn't occupying it just yet."

"I know what you mean. We just had this 'splendid' conference call; Whilton and Chokshi and good old Mr. Uprah. Five hours of torture." Dean receives a pat to his shoulder. "Sorry, half an hour and they expect me back up there for round two."

"No problem, sir. Have fun."

Over his shoulder, Wesson waves back at him. Legs like those sure make you fast, huh. "You too!" Dean hears.

Whatever Wesson is doing there, it surely hasn't much to do with fun. Even _looking_ at those weights hurts. The noises Wesson makes while heaving them up are a vague indicator of his struggles. The sudden and disturbingly animalistic grunts make Dean uncomfortable and unfortunately his earbuds are incapable of overpowering anything. Concentrating is out of question. Dean decides to switch to cardio.

The CEO joins him after not too long. To Dean's delight, he leaves a few treadmills of private space in between them. While Dean's pace and impact on the machine are rather even, Wesson decides on what must be the highest setting. Every stomp brings down an estimated two hundred pounds. Dean imagines feeling the man's panting and drops of sweat hitting his side. The way his shoulder-length hair flies around, it would not be a surprise to that actually being the case. Dean stares ahead and tries not to let his disgust interfere with his performance.

Wesson eventually finishes and heads for the showers. Good, because Dean has twenty minutes left to go and is grateful to spend them in newfound silence. Earbuds back in, he watches rush hour traffic crouch by and lets anonymous electronic sounds lull him back into his zone.

He smells him before he sees him, doesn't have to turn his head. Freshly out of the shower, Wesson seems to have used an entire bottle of body wash in one go. When he comes closer and finally leans onto Dean's treadmill, Dean can barely tolerate the scent.

"Wow. Someone's dedicated."

"Heh, guilty," he confesses with little breath.

"You do this regularly?"

"Try to."

"Huh, looks like I've finally found a gym buddy." Wesson looks a bit tired but not exhausted. He blow-dried his hair and put on a black shirt instead of his earlier white. Thirty two, no wedding ring. Dean tries not to jump to conclusions. "Anyway, have a nice evening. I've gotta go."

"Good luck with the conference, sir."

"Thanks. See you around."

Dean finishes, stretches and alternates between shower and sauna for another two hours. Outside, night has settled, despite the city still being pretty much alive. The bypassing lights are blurry and unattractive to him but it feels soothing watching everything crawling and twisting around him. City life is a good life. Dean has no idea how people on the countryside survive their boredom.

A ten minute taxi drive later, he is welcomed by his apartment building's concierge and barely has enough strength left to get in and out of the elevator. It's smoothie for dinner; "green and healthy" enough to make his appetite vanish. Dean falls asleep in his clothes. 

~

They run into each other again the next day, after Dean fueled Rhonda's hate for him with another unwanted visit and then went to grab some lunch down the street. "Don't tell me you're eating _this_." The place looked good and the salad was alright, Dean thought. Nevertheless, Wesson insisted on introducing him to one of his favorite places - and prior to passing your trial period, you do not decline your boss' invitations.

"They fix the best pasta around here," Wesson explains over the menu. His Baume & Mercier watch reflects the dim light falling through the windows. "You should really try it."

Dean "tries" hard not to cringe and re-reads the menu for what must be the third time. The steak sounds good. Lean protein. But with _potatoes_ on the side, hm... Okay. He'll make an exception today.

They order. Two minutes later, it dawns on Dean what Wesson's "and the usual" implied as the waiter brings them two whiskey tumblers. It's a good vintage and the contrast of hot and icy burn on the back of his throat turns Dean pliant to scandalous seven calories per gram. "I like your idea of a business lunch," he mocks.

Wesson mirrors his grin, but somehow wears it softer. "That's the whole point."

Being friendly with a superior hasn't ever hurt anybody, Dean tells himself. A senior contact is a convenient ace up his sleeve. Wesson obviously sympathizes with him; otherwise, he wouldn't have hired Dean. Maybe he pities Dean because he only just moved here, doesn't know anybody and thus has no idea of good places to dine at. Then again, people in Wesson's position usually discard their compassion together with their milk teeth.

They talk about work, the company. Wesson answers Dean's questions thoroughly and with a sense of humor that Dean has always enjoyed. It turns out the young CEO prefers conversation during meals which Dean is not a particular fan of, but he plays along. Over dessert, they are at their third drink each. Wesson finishes his chocolate-berry-whatever while Dean keeps nursing on his drink. The food is indeed good. He just hopes the bill won't come as heavy as he estimates it to be.

"This is on me," Wesson advises the waiter as he hands over his credit card.

Dean feels his stomach contents stir. "Mr. Wesson, I can't accept this."

"Hate to tell you, Smith-" Wesson does not look like he "hates" to say this, though. Dean recognizes the smug expression he got over the display of the treadmill. "-but I am your _boss_. I decide, you perform. I pay, you accept."

He chuckles away the tension. "Alright. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Oh, and maybe rather thank CS' business expenses budget than me." Wesson smiles wide and bright. Dean's laugh is genuine this time.

They head outside. Wesson stretches. "Any plans for today? Gym?"

"Not after a meal like that, God no." Dean pets his stomach. "How long will they keep you today?"

"If I'm not out of there at six PM sharp, please send a capsule of cyanide."

"That bad?"

"Worse."

Traffic rushes by and muffles Dean's tired laugh. He rubs his eyes while he starts looking for a taxi. Maybe he'll read for a bit. A nap would be nice, too. That way, maybe he can get enough rest to exercise again by tonight.

"-th. _Smith_?"

He startles, stares up at Wesson who eyes him questioningly.

"I said: _Are you free tonight, Smith?_ "

Damn impatient drivers with way too loud horns. "I, uhm. I guess?" he tries.

"What is your opinion on sipping overpriced fancy drinks in the company of people you hate, all while sitting in almost complete darkness?"

He blinks, frowns.

"'Cause there is this charity kind of thing going on tonight." The CEO has his suit jacket unbuttoned. Again, his button-down is black. In Dean's fatigued vision, it seems to swallow every bit of sunlight. "And if there was at least _one_ guy I could actually have a nice conversation with, that'd be pretty amazing."

"... Is this an order or an invitation?"

Now, it's Wesson who hesitates. His smile hasn't reappeared since the gym-question. "Invitation," he decides.

"Alright. When and where?"

"You're coming?"

"Might as well. Couldn't live with the certainty that I dished you out to this horrible fate all on your own."

There it is, that smile. Dean notices the hint of dimples. "Thank you," he hears. 

~ 

The dark blue shirt goes well with the silver-black pinstripe suit. At least the saleswoman told him so a few months back. If it went out of style by now, sue him. He approves of it at a last check in the mirror.

As expected, Wesson's driver is on time. Dean climbs into the limousine and is greeted with a handshake that turns into a soft squeeze to his shoulder when Dean almost loses his balance in his ducked posture. Wesson laughs it off and Dean takes his seat.

The cocktail lounge is indeed very sporadically lit. Where there are neon lights, there always is some kind of perfectly sleek surface to reflect them. It's really artsy; almost surreal. Thank God the evening is completely on the host. With an interior like this, the drinks must be a fortune. Each.

They get whiskey, naturally, with Wesson going for a straight one this time around. He nods towards the bottle Dean saw the bartender pour from. "Too good for ice," he is advised. By the time they collect their second round, Dean has been convinced to follow the example.

"Oh my God," he hums after the first sip, eyes rolling back in the pleasure of chasing the taste, "I think I just might have been ruined for any other beverage _ever_."

"I told you!" Wesson's teeth shine blue in the ultraviolet light.

Some introductions, handshakes and faked laughter later, Wesson decides that they did enough "work" and orders the entire bottle of "their" drink. They find an unoccupied corner on the gallery, overlooking the bar. Somehow they end up on Stanford times.

"Strange that we never ran into each other," Wesson muses.

"Yeah, well, business school versus law school... Different courses, different worlds."

Moreover, Wesson just casually dropped that his parents kept him out of the dorms. Yeah, Dean can imagine. The guy looks like someone with a lot of risky ideas. In combination with fraternities, ridiculously high allowances and a charm like Wesson's, the concept of dorm life definitely sounds like a suicide commando for the family's reputation.

"Still. If I would have seen you, I would have remembered you."

"Hm, don't be so sure. I never really was one of the 'cool' kids. More of the nerd type."

"How come? You seem like someone who has a lot of friends."

Dean scratches the joints of his right forefinger. "Quitting a... a fraternity doesn't exactly turn you into the king of campus. Did my grades all kinds of good, but I had problems building my network without invitations to the big parties."

Wesson nods calmly into his glass. "That's what made you stick working for those small companies?"

"... I wouldn't exactly call them 'small', sir."

"Smaller than us."

"That's correct."

"Well, Smith - _we've_ got you now."

Dean is smiled at, returns the gesture, downs another sip of whiskey. The detail about the fraternity has neither been necessary nor professional. On the other hand... Wesson supplied him with enough ammunition of his own. Dean has to remind himself to stay cautious. They're still business partners. Too much vulnerability could kill his career before it even started.

In between the lights' turn from purple to blue, Dean grasps the sad fact that this here is the longest and most comfortable private conversation he has had in weeks - if not _months_. Next to work and maybe gym, there is not much time for friends and family. Little Naomi's birthday was in March. Almost half a year ago. While re-filling his tumbler, Dean tries to remember the last phone call he has had with his mother.

Midnight has not reached them yet when Wesson suggests calling it a day. Relief washes through Dean's exhausted body. The bar is getting more crowded by the minute and Dean can think of at least three different locations he would rather be while being cozily drunk and tired. Two of them - his own bed and shower - are places he would not mind falling asleep in exactly _now_. Wesson doesn't look any better. He hasn't stopped smiling this last hour. Happy drunk. Lucky bastard.

It is not cold outside by any means, but Dean still shivers at the breeze. They climb into Wesson's waiting car and Dean's last strings of dignity hold him back from sinking into the seat with his entire weight. "I think I need one of these, too," he huffs and pats the cream leather interior of the limousine.

"Ah, not really," Wesson offers while slipping in next to Dean. Dean can taste his breath; whiskey and pines. "You can always borrow mine."

Suddenly, like a slow creeping sensation rolling down his spine, the seats are too narrow. Suddenly, Dean feels crammed in between car door and his boss. His eyes catch the tagged-along whiskey bottle in Wesson's hand.

"Where do you live?"

The question comes slowly, almost dark... but probably, Dean is too drunk. He is hearing things. He stares at his knees and wipes his cheek with his hand. "... Jackson Ave."

Wesson leans to the front and raises his chin to speak into what must be an intercom connected to the driver - thank God, the moment is gone. "You hear that, John?"

A little "click" noise, followed by, "Jackson Ave, sir, Mr. Wesson, sir. Comin' right up."

The car starts moving. Dean remembers to breathe. "Aw, now don't be so formal!" Wesson laughs and leans back again, shields his mouth with his hand as he whispers. "He's ten years my senior."

Click. "Five, Mr. Wesson, sir." Maybe a little accusation in that voice.

Enough to make Wesson laugh again. Yeah, definitely happy drunk. "You got it, Johnny-boy."

Five minutes pass, ten. Dean watches the streets slick by in the thick nighttime traffic of a city that never actually sleeps. The warmth of the car makes his eyelids droop, but he keeps control. Just a little longer and he can surrender to booze-heavy sleep all he wants.

Next to him, there is no sign of consciousness. Maybe Wesson fell asleep himself. Dean is not interested in making sure though. It is a kind of intimate situation, and this is his boss' car, after all. Dean knows his place. It is nice enough that Dean is being dropped off at his home.

"You know," Dean eventually hears, almost distant with how small and airy the words are, "that actually was a really nice evening."

"It was fun," he agrees.

"... You're a good guy, Smith."

He smiles to himself. "That's why you hired me, I guess."

"Obviously," Wesson chuckles. His shoulder is warm against Dean's upper arm. "We should do this again. Finally someone around my age, not all those... eh, I don't want to start throwing around the profanities here, Smith, but you know what I mean."

Yeah, Dean can relate. His smile widens and he has to peer over his shoulder to share a raised eyebrow with the young CEO. He is met with small, sleep-wet eyes. "You hired me because I'm a good guy and because you were lonely?"

A short silence. Wesson's eyes move between what must be Dean's left and right eye, but Dean is too tired to really tell. The hour-old smile still hasn't left Wesson's mouth.

"Maybe," Dean hears.

Many streets later, Dean stumbles out of the car and wishes he wouldn't so obviously _stumble_. He turns back to the now rolled-down window and leans against the cool surface of the car.

"Gym tomorrow?"

"Uh, yeah. Sure." Dean rubs his eyes.

"When're you gonna be there?"

"I don't know yet, to be honest. Feel free to ring me out of bed."

There's a half-roll of eyes. "What happened to the 'sir'?"

He snorts a laugh. "Feel free to ring me out of bed, _Mr. Wesson, sir_."

A wider grin; the silent "better". "Do I have your number?"

Dean searches his pocket for his keys, finds them. "It should be in my application somewhere, shouldn't it?"

"Ah, sure, sorry. I forgot."

"No problem, sir."

Still the same smile. "Get some rest. Good night."

"Good night. Have a safe ride."

"Will do. Bye."

"Bye."

The limousine drives off and Dean lets his eyes follow it for a moment. "What a night," he groans and somehow makes it to his floor, apartment, bedroom. He sleeps for ten hours straight. 

~ 

At two PM, the phone call comes. Day three, Dean thinks to himself, only one more to go. Finally. He arrives at the gym twenty minutes later. Wesson awaits him; he has more time today, could break down some extra hours. "You didn't have to, sir."

Wesson adjusts his grip and posture on the machine. "Don't worry," he assures.

Out of curiosity and boredom and of course politeness, Dean agrees to being guided through Wesson's routine. As impressive it is to watch the younger man ace machine after machine, it is humiliating to fail at the weight settings he is given. He tries, he really tries, grinds his teeth and pushes his limits, but the weights won't budge. Wesson doesn't pity him, watches closely and gives a short, approving nod before decreasing by a few pounds. "Try again," Dean hears over his own ragged breathing. Once he finally makes it, he gets a "good work". It eases the burn of embarrassment, somehow.

"You're not the maximum strength method kind of guy, are you?"

Dean takes greedy gulps from his water bottle and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand when he is done. "No."

"Endurance?"

"Yeah."

Wesson nods casually. His eyes are pinned where he fumbles with the next machine. "I figured. You're fairly... lean."

Dean doesn't answer.

"Oh." When Wesson turns around to face him, his hair swings vigorously. Dean tries not to blink at the drop of sweat that hits him on his cheek. "I, uh. I wanted to tell you something. About last night."

It's an itch, a terrible, stinging itch, but he doesn't allow himself to scratch it yet. Dean returns the straight-forward stare of his boss. "Yes?"

The gaze softens then. The somewhat tight mouth melts into a wary smile. "Well. I might have... been a little chatty. I apologize for that. Good whiskey does that to me."

"And what does a bad one do?"

Wesson raises his eyebrows at that, curls his upper lip to reveal a row of perfect teeth. He exhales through his nose. "You don't wanna know." Wesson leans against the machine to his left. With his shoulders rolled back and the straight posture, he surely is impressive. "Anyway. You're a good guy, Smith, and I enjoyed drinking with you. I enjoy this here, too. I just want you to know that if I'm not like this during work, then it's because this here is private, and work is work. I have a serious job, I do serious work. I am professional at what I do."

_Translates to: You're gonna be an asshole when we're up there_. "Of course, sir." Dean nods and finally wipes the stray drop from his cheek. "You are my supervisor, so I am grateful for all the trust you're giving me here before even closing a single deal for CS."

"I like your honesty."

"The feeling is mutual, sir."

"... It's 'Sam'," Dean hears.

Dean tests the name on his tongue, between his teeth. Honor tastes rich. "Dean," he breathes and stretches his hand out for the CEO to shake.

It is taken. "I know."

Sam's hand is warm. 

~ 

"You're not wearing a wedding ring."

Dean blinks through the dim light of the sauna. Together with the smell of dry, hot cedar, it always makes him sleepy. He tries a chuckle. "Well, you neither."

"No kids? No girl? No dog and white picket fence?"

He thinks of Lisa, of Ben. "Wasn't meant to be," he says under a shrug.

"You're thirty-six! You have all the time in the world left, you know. You're successful, you're smart, you're funny..."

"Oh, stop it!" Dean snorts.

"Seriously. I know like, ten excellent, wonderful ladies who would marry you on the spot. I could introduce you."

It's a difficult topic. Dean would rather not continue talking about it. But then again, he's in it with one and a half leg already now. "My... Uhm, no offence, sir, that is a generous offer, it really is... but especially now that I got this new job, I'd rather..." Dean lowers his eyes to his knees. "I'd rather concentrate on work for now."

A short silence; a creak of a dry plank.

When Dean looks down to his side, Wesson is looking up at him. Dean just now realizes how gigantic the guy's forehead is with how long strands of hair wildly stick to it from too much wiping of a too wide hand. "Work can be pretty lonely," he is told.

Dean swallows, looks back ahead. Wesson's legs are long in the corner of his eye. "I don't mind loneliness." 

~ 

There hasn't been anybody around except the both of them since they entered the gym, but still... this is very awkward. Dean is not exactly convinced yet. The water surface is completely still. "I didn't know they had this."

"It's the best! I can't believe they didn't show it to you."

The sound of a towel falling to the ground ties up Dean's insides. If he wasn't covered in sweat already, he surely would be now. "I- Is it- Don't we have to, uh, put on a-"

"Dean. This is specifically made for after having a sauna. You are _meant_ to go in naked."

It is cold. It _must_ be cold. Definitely is cold. Dean thinks of Swedes jumping into holes of otherwise ice-covered lakes. Even though he is burning up, the idea isn't too pleasing. He swallows. "Ready when you are, sir," he mocks.

A teasing hand wraps around his shoulder and pushes him forwards with quickly increasing force.

"Hey! Nonononono!"

"Age before beauty, Smith!"

What Dean _can_ do is rip his towel off of himself in the last second. What he _cannot_ do is hold back the shriek of horror when the ice-cold water swallows him up. The push was hard, so his head sinks underneath the surface. The cold is so intense, so sudden that it claws into his skin without mercy. He hears Wesson dive in behind him just before he manages to get his head back above the water. He cannot breathe. _He cannot breathe_. His chest won't open up wide enough, won't give more precious skin surface to the water. His ears ring; he flails with every limb. Panic. He is gonna drown.

Hands wrap around his waist and push him forwards. They are so incredibly warm. It must be Wesson's, right? Dean gets a hold of the edge of the pool and holds on for his life. His heart jackrabbits in his chest, all the way up to his tongue. Heat rushes to the top of his head and Dean coughs through his gasps for air.

Warmth slides up his sides, back, shoulders. Dean's hearing is numb; he is shaking.

"Shit; I- I didn't mean to- Are you okay?!"

"Alive," Dean splutters.

The hands are soothing if he takes them as what they are - warm. He doesn't allow himself to think much further.

After stumbling under a hot shower, Dean can't get dressed quickly enough. All he wants is his bathtub. Maybe filled to the brim with hand-warm lavender oil. "I'll be fine, sir. A little water won't kill me." Was close though. But hey - always be positive. Dean tries a smile.

"Are you sure you don't need a ride?" Wesson eyes him with just as much doubt as Dean would have expected from a man of his intelligence. Eventually, he nods to himself. Dean is already buckling up his bag when Wesson starts again: "Tomorrow? Same time, same place?"

Three seconds is what makes the real difference in lying. Under, and you're safe. Over, and you're busted. Dean is trained enough for "under" but too defeated for a Broadway act. "I ain't too sure if I can keep up with your training regime, sir..."

"There's no need to," Wesson assures. "You do your thing, I do mine. Don't sweat it."

After today and specifically after the pool incident, Dean is not too thrilled about another workout again already. But there is Wesson who looks more like a kicked dog than anything else. He's his _boss_ , for God's sake. If your boss is so desperate for you to like them, you better take that elevator ticket they're slapping into your damn face.

Dean puts on his best "ah, you've got me" face and lets his sigh escape from his nostrils. "Keep your eyes open for that guy coughing up ice cubes on the treadmill."

Finally and for the first time since he pushed Dean into the pool, Wesson is laughing again. His giant hand comes crushing down on Dean's arm. Dean paints a smile over his repulsion. After their goodbyes, he walks two blocks before flagging down the next-best cab. 

~ 

He hasn't dreamed of Matt in forever.

Next to the immediate impulse to scrub all this cold sweat off of himself for a good five consecutive minutes, all Dean can pin down in his head is the annoyance over the fact that it's still the middle of the night, meaning: Still another day to go. Still facing the stupid anxiety of revisiting the facility that almost became his grave yesterday. Still facing Wesson and needing to act like he is not going to have a heart attack about every little movement the man does.

_It's only water, you said it yourself. Stop making such a fuss about it, goddammit. It's only water._

A quick shower full of groaning and feeling old (of course he would be sore after that damn Iron Man session) is followed by the most aggressive and messy change of sheets Dean has ever performed. Then, finally, he can go back to sleep.

Three hours later, the alarm pulls him out of dreamless darkness. Thank God.

Fresh orange juice, coffee, organic whole grain cereals, GMO-free soy milk - perfect. He eats, finishes the coffee over the newspaper and rids the kitchen of his breakfast's traces. A short call at the reception earns him a recommendation for a close-by dry cleaner. The lady taking the last days' suits into her care doesn't look many more years older than Dean. He smiles and tips generously, all while mentally thanking God for blessing him with the right career choices.

Back home, Dean finds nothing to do but to pack his gym bag. Water bottle, new set of clothes and underwear, two towels. The shower products are still good to go, so they are not replaced. The zipper purrs and leaves the bag sitting on top of the table, ready to go.

Dean looks at it for a long moment. Eventually, he pulls out one of the chairs to sit down on it. He can see the street from the windows of his apartment. A piece of skyline.

Until the phone rings, he doesn't move.


	2. Chapter 2

"Hey."

"Hey."

Wesson is readjusting the weights on the chest press as Dean passes him. Where Dean expects the knowing itch of eyes following him, there is nothing. He lets out a quiet sigh as he steps on the treadmill for his warmup. Music on, world out. Dean repeats the segments of his ensuing workout in his head while he sticks to an easy pace. Ten minutes.

Whichever machine or equipment Dean is using, Wesson is nowhere to be seen, somehow always at the opposite corner of the gym. Even though it shouldn't, it's making Dean strangely anxious. Is Wesson still embarrassed about the pool incident? Should Dean go and reassure him that it's okay? Did Dean do something wrong? It's probably nothing and especially none of these things. Thinking too much. Thirty seconds rest, next rep, breathe, breathe.

 _Great_ , Wesson had said on the phone. Great that Dean would come. Great that they would see each other. Great that Wesson didn't have to train all by himself. It's this and only this. The lack of conversation and bright smiles doesn't mean anything. Wesson is simply concentrating (good thing, considering the weights he is handling). Dean doesn't even _know_ the guy. Maybe this is the "normal" Sam Wesson, the "yeah okay we know each other now; now I can drop the immortal smiling" Sam Wesson.

Twenty minutes into Dean's final treadmill session, Wesson joins him. They are occupying the same machines as the first time they had met here. Polite distance. Still, just like the first time, Dean hears those stomps over the beats of his music. He stares ahead, steady, unfazed; street, people, glass fronts - breathe, breathe.

They finish simultaneously. Their eyes meet over the machines but Dean turns away as suddenly as the contact occurred. He wipes his face with his towel (not in order to hide, no) and listens to Wesson's movements, his tired sigh and steps that lead into the direction of the changing rooms. With nowhere else to go, Dean follows.

The shower is incredibly loud. Dean never gave it much of a thought but today it really bothers him. There are no separated stalls and if Dean raised his eyes, he could see Wesson in all his nakedness. The other way around too, of course. The ideas leave a bite of uneasiness. Dean keeps his back to Wesson even though the man is doing the same. Hot water on his sore muscles should help Dean relax, but today it's not working as well as usually. It must be the remnants of the shock from yesterday. Yes. The shock. Maybe the dream from tonight, too. Bad combination. The thoughts make Dean's skin crawl, so he pushes them away.

"Sauna, Smith?" Wesson's voice resonates in the otherwise empty room. Water, Wesson and Dean.

"Sure," he answers before he can think about it.

There _is_ nothing to think about. Get a grip of yourself, Smith. He's your boss. That's that. He likes you, that is all. You are a welcomed buddy. You two share interests - fitness and whiskey and humor. That's that. He isn't even _looking_ at you. Don't worry. There's nothing.

Thorough toweling leaves Dean's hair a little damp but will have to do. Since Wesson's hair is longer, it needs more attention and time, so Dean leads the way. There's a knot in the towel around his hips, but he still keeps his fist over it; just to be sure. Halfway there he realizes he forgot to put on his thongs. A heavy wave of disgust makes him flinch, but he hears Wesson somewhere behind him and there is no going back now. Sweat settles on his skin. Dean is aware of it as he moves forward.

Door handle, push, sizzling hot air. Entering. Naked feet on slippery tiles, no slipping, just pure, honest repulsion. The temperature turns Dean's attention to how his heart hammers against his breastbone, but he has come this far; everything else would be impolite, wouldn't it? As Dean climbs to the benches on mid-height, he hears Wesson coming in behind him, that decisive "click" of a closing door. Dean takes a seat, stares at his knees, flattens his towel. No leaning back, no skin on wood. His shoulders tense further in his hunched-over position.

In the corner of Dean's eyes, Wesson is spreading his towel not too far from Dean; right next to him, to be correct. But if he _spreads_ his towel, that must mean... Dean turns his head away a little farther.

When Wesson is lying down, the bench groans under his weight. Dean tries to concentrate on the color of the wood instead of the racing of his heart or the urge to jolt up and out of here, instead of the closeness of Wesson's sigh, so so fucking nearby that his head must be close to Dean while his feet are stretched away from them. Dean flinches, strains his neck. He swallows a tensed sound, runs his hands over the back of his neck and into his hair, behind his ears, in front of his eyes. With his elbows on his knees, he stills. If anything, this is the way he can survive the next ten minutes.

The quiet hum of the heaters keeps them company. Water drips somewhere. As always when they come here, the gym is nowhere near busy. It's a workday, about two PM. Most people already finished their lunchbreaks and returned to work now. Back to work. Work. Tomorrow, Dean can finally start working again. Finally. Something to do. Something to keep him busy. Finally. The idea of "everything will work out" starts forming in Dean's head. Like this, his tension can't keep up anymore and leaves his body with a deep sigh. Shoulders start sinking. Heat seeps into skin, beyond. It's gonna be okay. You're gonna be okay. As soon as work starts, you'll be okay.

"Am I making you uncomfortable?"

"No," Dean breathes immediately, head still swimming, still hidden behind his hands. "No sir, no. I'm alright. Just tired."

"From yesterday?"

He nods out of reflex, unsure if Wesson is even looking at him. It's such an easy lie. "Yes."

A short silence before, "About that, actually-"

"It's fine," he lies again.

"No, Smith. I feel awful. It was stupid and it was reckless. That's not how to treat another person, let alone a friend. I really want to make it up to you."

 _Friend_ , Wesson says. "Hm," Dean makes. He can't think. It's too hot. He feels like fainting.

"Let's have dinner somewhere tonight." Wesson speaks slowly, softly. He must be tired as well. The heat must get to him, too. "Just you and me. Good whiskey, good steak. Be my guest. Please."

Don't faint. Don't lose control. "... Alright," Dean says.

Heat settles into his bones.

~ 

The knocking comes at 6:13 PM. When Dean opens the door with a mix of anger and panic in his guts, Wesson's smile is so wide it's almost rude. "Y-you said- Didn't you say half past seven?"

"Got out early." A bottle is pressed into Dean's hands. "Lucky me!" Wesson lets himself in.

He should have _called_. This was not what they discussed. Dean feels stupid for being upset about such a harmless thing as an early visitor. "I- I'm not ready at all, I-"

"Hey, relax!" Emphasis comes in the form of a soft rub to Dean's shoulder. Dean can barely keep himself from pulling away from the touch. "I just didn't feel like sitting around by myself for another hour, you know? You take your time. We're in no hurry."

Dean digs his teeth into his bottom lip, stares at the door knob (traitor) and then at what Wesson handed him. He recognizes the label: It's the same brand of whiskey they were having back at the charity event.

"Where do you keep your glasses, Smith?"

He gets them two by himself and glances all over his little apartment while his boss pours the drinks. Shit. Dean hadn't thought that Wesson would come upstairs at all. He should have cleaned, just in case. It's not untidy by any means of course, but still... Fuck. A glass bumps against his knuckles, and he takes it. When he dares to look up into the CEO's face, he is met with a merry expression.

"To your last night as a 'free man'," Wesson exclaims. Dean tries to laugh but isn't sure it's really coming out. They clink glasses and take the first sip of the evening.

Heat down his gullet, into his stomach is relaxing him immediately, even though it does bring a bitter twist, too. Relax. Relax. He's your boss. He's trying to cheer you up. At least _try_ to pretend you're enjoying this. "Thank you, sir." Yes, that's a start. Now smile. Perfect.

Wesson keeps on smiling. "There we go."

Dean excuses himself in favor of getting dressed. The intimacy of his bedroom calms him a little along with the lone gulp of alcohol. Right now, he wishes he hadn't already chosen his outfit. He could have spent more time in here. Out of lounge clothing and into regular white button-down, grey suit. Wesson isn't wearing a tie, so Dean doesn't put one on either.

After bracing himself for another beat or two, Dean emerges from the bedroom. He finds Wesson sitting on his couch with a book in the one and his drink in the other hand. Attention switches to him though when Wesson hears the door clicking shut, and he immediately gets up.

"No, it's, uh- I'll just fix my hair real quick. Have a seat, sir; please."

"Oh," Wesson says while he slowly sinks back down. "Yeah, sure. Thanks."

Bathroom door. Lock.

Touching my stuff. He's touching my stuff. He didn't even _ask_ if it was okay to... Man, quit it, Smith! Shit, why are you so- so...? He's not gonna burn it or something, so keep it together!

Mousse, blow-drier, cologne. Dean's reflection stares back at him with a hostile expression. He huffs in frustration and leans onto the sink with both hands. A few tries into it, he finds the smile he wants to wear this evening. The not-too professional one; his favorite one for family gatherings. It looks easy-going, as if Dean felt good in his skin where and with whom he is. He practiced maintaining it over the slur of a drink too much. Yes. The right one for tonight.

"I like your apartment," Wesson tells Dean when he steps next to him in front of the window. A second sip from his glass. "Did you buy it?"

"Not yet."

"Trial period worries?"

Dean shakes his head and watches the lights of the city. "No." They stand close now, Wesson and him, but the mask makes everything easier. Dean can breathe, can smell Wesson's cologne and not ache to retch from its warmth. Even his heart is calm. Yes. It's gonna be okay. "It's just that I'm a realist, sir."

"A _realist_." Wesson repeats the word slowly, as if he needed to taste it like he does with the whiskey. Another gulp which Dean mirrors, and Wesson chuckles into his glass. "I honestly can't wait to start working with you."

Dean's huff sounds like a warm something. Good. "Be careful what you wish for, sir."

~ 

Where the cocktail lounge was too hip and crowded, the restaurant is almost too exclusive. Dean gets dizzy from the luxury pouring out of every corner of this place. Yeah, damn, he is in higher management now, is he? Well, at least hanging out with higher management. Wesson greets the receptionist with familiar warmth and is welcomed in the same manner. Dean gets introduced. A hand slips on and off Dean's shoulder the instance the "business partner" is out of Wesson's mouth, and Dean keeps his smile steady through the short seconds of it.

They are guided to their table. Dark interior muffles all sound except for the soft tunes of classical music. If Dean didn't feel his clothes shifting on his body and wasn't watching his polished shoes making step after step over the carpeted floor, he would have no idea they were moving at all. They are eventually being seated. A very secluded space. It gives off an almost oriental vibe thanks to hung low curtains from the ceiling and down the walls. It's definitely cozy here. Spooky but cozy. Dean listens to the waiter's recommendation of today's menu.

Wesson goes ahead and orders steak for both of them, along with a bottle of red wine. The longer they sit here, the better Dean's eyes adjust to the low lights. Wesson is almost invisible in his black on black combo of shirt and suit. Dean holds on to a light face, light hands. Wesson closes his eyes for the first sip of wine. Even though Dean has no real sympathy for this type of beverage, he can tell it's a good one. They hadn't been handed a written menu. He can only imagine the prices in here.

"Butter" is the perfect expression for the steak. It's heavenly. No potatoes, no distractions. Where Wesson uses delicate slices of bread to dab at the juices, Dean puts concentration in doing the same with the meat itself. He lets a contended hum escape him over the combination of wine and steak on his tongue. A perfect match. It doesn't even bother him to feel Wesson's gaze on him. All he does is close his eyes and let bliss wash through him. It's been a very long time since he was able to enjoy a meal to such an extent.

They take their time with finishing off the plates; even Wesson. In silent unison over the exquisite meal, there is no space nor need for conversation. Dean takes longer than Wesson, of course, but the younger man doesn't seem to mind the waiting at all. He sips wine, watches. Dean feels good. Dean feels relaxed.

After the empty bottle has been taken away by the waiter, Wesson orders bourbon; another brand this time, but again without ice. Dean feels good and heavy. Once he is ready to speak again, he will thank the man. But not yet. Staying silent is a bit like forcing time to stand still, especially in these strange surroundings where nothing seems to move.

Wesson thanks the waiter and pours the drinks himself. The noises are dull, almost muffled in Dean's ears. He watches the golden liquid flowing into polished glass, swaying back and forth as languidly as he himself feels.

"An Irish one," Wesson's voice tells him in a low hum. The first words he spoke to Dean since they entered the restaurant.

Dean takes the glass into his hand. He expects it to be cool, at least cooler than his skin, but it isn't. Everything is warm. Their fingers knock against each other as they clink their glasses. This time, Dean is the one closing his eyes for the first taste.

The burn is smooth and full. When he exhales as he lets the glass sink, the heavy aroma coats his senses in honey and oak. This isn't a drink, this is _religion_.

"I take it that you like it?"

Dean nods. He can't open his eyes just yet. Another sip. It gives him shivers down his back.

A soft huff of laughter. "I had a feeling it would be a good idea to bring you here."

"It's a strange place," Dean hums. His breath feels hot in his own throat, his mouth. He probably shouldn't drink this much, definitely shouldn't with his first day of work taking place tomorrow. Strangely enough, he couldn't care less.

"It is," Wesson agrees. "The owner is a friend of mine. He has several projects all over the world, one more curious than the next. From the ones I've seen so far, this here remains my favorite."

"It's like nothing I have ever seen."

A nod. "No surprise. Nothing here is functional. I always wonder what would happen if there was a fire in here. Too dark to see your own hand." A sip of whiskey. "We'd stomp each other to death and climb the walls."

"… That's a way to see things, I guess."

"But wouldn't it be true?"

Dean's fingertips play with the glass. He has his gaze pinned somewhere around Wesson's right ear. "It probably would, sir."

Wesson's eyes are dark spots on white, surrounded by more dark; different shades of black, faintest tint of red. If it had any reason, Dean would now wonder where the lights are even coming from. But that is not of importance.

"Do you come here often, Sam?" There is not much thought when he uses this name, this privilege. It feels right to use it here and now, and Wesson did allow him to use it, didn't he?

Eyes still on his boss' ear, Dean still notices the short second of surprise - but Wesson remains friendly and proves Dean's intuition right as he relaxes even more. "No. It's not exactly a place for everyday dinners."

Dean feels himself smile. Strange. Doesn't feel like the one he put on in the bathroom. "Hm," he makes. He feels good. It's odd and unheard of, but it's a nice sensation. "I'm honored."

Sam's smile widens. "How so?"

"'Cause you took me here. For a 'not everyday dinner'. Where we could die from a tipping candle." He doesn't slur the words and yet they feel easy on his tongue. A smoldering voice somewhere in the back of Dean's head tells him that this is an absolutely inappropriate way of talking to his superior, and what the hell does Dean even mean to _say_ here?, but somehow he is untouched by it, moreover feels light and good and warm and right exactly where he is.

He lets his eyelids droop, lower his gaze down into his glass where whiskey gleams almost foreign, not like a drink anymore but a living thing, a presence. The silence is strange, but it cannot touch Dean. It feels right, just like when he closed his eyes over the first sip of this heavenly drink.

There is something about the smile on Sam's face, the smoothness of his eyes. Maybe they are both a little drunk. Maybe they are getting along really really well, better than most people or friends Dean ever got to know. It feels good to be here, Dean thinks.

A fingertip brushes over his knuckles.

Dean watches it happen like it wasn't his hand, as if it belonged to someone else. There is no urge to pull away.

"I told you I wanted to make it up to you, didn't I."

 _Yes_ , Dean wants to say. Somehow, he can't.

The finger returns, a little bolder this time. Dean watches. He is floating.

Finger becomes fingers. Eventually, Sam's hand settles down over Dean's around the glass.

Dean slowly blinks down at it. Sam's palm is warm and dry. It feels exactly like the bourbon looks.

After a while - and Dean is unable to tell how long said while lasted - Sam says, "I really enjoy spending time with you, Dean."

There are a couple of replies on Dean's tongue and yet none of them make it past his lips, despite the little gap there is.

"... Are you alright?"

That whiskey voice turns Dean's insides to a puddle. The sensation is difficult to classify. Is it good? Is it bad?

Dean nods.

A soft, soft squeeze from that hand. Then it vanishes.

"Come," someone says.

Dean rises from his seat since it must have been Sam's voice. There is no sound from chair legs on floor, no ice cubes to jingle in their glasses. _His_ glass. Dean can't find Sam's. He must have left it at the table.

Closer to the wall, they sit down again. Low lounge chairs. Sam's skin gleams in the fascinating light. Dean doesn't know why he follows or why he sits down here, what he thinks might happen or not happen. He feels his heart fluttering against the insides of his ribcage, a weak and feeble thing, and he has another slow draught of whiskey. There are eyes which burn their way over his body. Dean leans back because he has a feeling Sam is doing the same, and he doesn't look to his left where his boss is sitting, doesn't observe the strange behavior of his drink-being anymore. He can barely see the table and chairs they just were sitting at even though they are only a few steps away. The music is soft and unaltered.

The hand from earlier places itself on his knee. Dean keeps staring ahead.

The hand is heavy. It seems to infuse Dean's leg with heat that spreads up Dean's thigh, meets with whiskey in the middle of his body, pushes up into chest and throat and back of neck.

Dean hears Sam shifting in his seat, so so loud and clear all of a sudden, and he turns his face a little to the right; away.

"You are not obligated to do anything," Sam starts. He is closer to Dean now. Dean can smell the shampoo he knows from the gym showers. "This is not work. I am not your boss now, and whatever you do or say will not be held against you at CS or anywhere."

Dean feels like nodding, but he is unable to move.

So Sam continues speaking in this low, careful voice. "I am a professional man, Dean. I have no trouble separating business and private issues. Human resources aside, and I really mean _completely_ aside: I really like you, Dean."

The hand slips around and under the back of Dean's knee. Dean's leg twitches at that. Dean thinks he might be starting to sweat.

Something inside of Dean hisses that it was right all along. He chooses to ignore it. He has to keep himself from coming out of his skin.

He forgot how all of this can make you feel. Flirting. Closeness. It had felt natural with Sam, with Mr. Wesson. It hadn't felt sexual at all. All this comes very suddenly, and yet again not. With his thoughts racing by a hundred miles per hour, Dean is incapable of pinning a single one of them down.

But he likes Sam too, doesn't he? That seems to be a certain thing. They are good together. It is fun to be with Sam, more than it had been with anyone in the past few years of Dean's life. Ever, maybe.

The hand drifts up a little, not too high into the vulnerable space of Dean's inner thigh. Polite. Respectful. Cautious.

Sam leans towards Dean's ear, and Dean tenses. Sam is close enough for Dean to be aware of the heat radiating off of his skin, close enough for Sam to smell Dean's cologne, hair, sweat. The thought turns Dean's shame hotter, his skin tighter. A shaking hand is holding his glass, the other is draped loose and lifelessly over the chair's armrest Sam is leaning against.

One hand on Dean's leg, the other getting a hold of Dean's hand. Sam's lashes drag over Dean's cheek when he speaks. "I think you like me as well, Dean. Don't you?"

He shakes with his exhales. Sam's whispers crawl under his skin, unfamiliar and heated, and Dean's head spins with them. _Yes. Yes, I think I like you too. But maybe not like_ this _? I am not sure, sir._ Nothing of any of this makes it out.

"I need to hear you say it." His breath is hot against Dean's skin, too close, too good.

Dean's full stomach clenches. His own voice sounds strange to him and not like his own at all when he manages a faint, "Yes."

"Good, Dean. That was good." Fingers tap along the seam of his suit pants. "You are nervous, aren't you?"

Again, "Yes."

"That's okay. I can tell that you are not gay - me neither. It's easier when you stop thinking in too tight patterns though." Fingers entwine with his own, soft, always soft and gentle. They do not care that Dean's palm is wet with sweat; they simply hold it. "It's rather simple: you either like something or you don't. There is not much more to think about. I wouldn't enjoy drinking with most people but I do enjoy it with you. A lot, that is. Does that make sense to you?"

"Yes." Louder now, but not much more confident.

"It's the same with everything, really." Lips brush down Dean's cheek, under earlobe and behind. All hairs on Dean's body stand straight at the shudder these touches pull from him. It's been long since someone did this to him. Very long. Dean never thought about it, so he never missed it. But to have it back now…

Dean's head starts turning before he made up his mind about what it means to do so. Sam's words are clear in his ears, and yes, maybe it _can_ be as easy as that?

Kissing is nice. _Can_ be nice. It's been a very long time since Dean felt the urge to kiss someone, to _be_ kissed.

Sam is nice. Nice to him. He said he likes him. He's a great businessman and knows his bounds. Dean might be able to trust him.

Dean closes his eyes again in the last few degrees of the turn, before he can see Sam's, can get scared and thrown off by darkness on white, the strange already-there familiarity of his boss' face.

Sam's mouth awaits him like an old friend.

With his eyes closed, it's almost as if they didn't exist, neither of them. Just two mouths finding each other, no gender, no social structure, nothing. Sam tastes just like Dean himself; wine and steak and bourbon. The pressure is nice, right, just right. Sam moves his lips a little, and it's good. Dean goes with it.

A slow, cautious kiss. It lasts long, longer than Dean thinks a first, awkward kiss should last. But it's exactly what feels right between them; exactly what Dean needs, needed. In the end, it's him who pulls back, blinks his eyes open but looks away, heart racing somewhere in his throat. The fear that Sam might chase his mouth is unjustified and its absence so relieving that Dean exhales deeply and noisy. He immediately cringes over this uncontrolled sound.

"Hm," makes Sam, and it comes loving, gentle, not mocking at all. That hand roams wide and spreads over the top of Dean's thigh, up and down, warm and big. "Was that okay?" Sam wants to know.

Dean croaks his, "Yeah."

"Should we wait with the next one?"

"Yes." Dean nods wildly. "Yes. Please."

"Alright." Soft squeeze to his hand, softer mouth next to his ear, down his jaw, throat. Dean bares it, turns his head out of a sudden feeling, shudders at the trail of kisses that follow, that he made possible. The idea sounds outrageous to himself. Sam's hand holds his leg spread wide. The tension of the pull feels good.

Kisses down to his shirt's collar, and Dean hears Sam inhaling here. "I want to touch you some more."

Dean presses his lips together.

"Would that be okay?"

Hesitant at first and more sincere in the end, Dean nods.

Sam's hand drifts up his leg and across that invisible barrier until it finally settles warm and complete over Dean's crotch. Dean gasps, can't hold that back no matter how hard he tries.

"Let me kiss you."

Dean turns his head. Sam's lips seem to be electrified; it almost hurts to touch them. The hand between his legs makes the softest effort to fondle him through his pants, and Dean's entire body flinches. He chokes a sigh into the kiss, shakes, but the touches are soft enough to keep him from running. The thought is there, definitely, but doesn't go through.

No. This is okay. Good, even.

Dean lets Sam's fingertips run over the fly of his pants with barely-there pressure. For his touch-starved body though, it's more than enough. He starts getting hard even before fingertips become palm and brushes become firm rubs. "Hm." That sound again. Like Dean did something surprisingly good. Dean is very sure he isn't doing anything, let alone something good. But Sam lets go of his lips now, kisses nowhere Dean's mouth is chasing him but instead kisses until he is in the dip of Dean's collarbones again, nips here.

"Ohgod," Dean rushes. His hips shove out and into that hand, entire body on fire, too hot, too urgent. His hand is being tugged away from the armrest, down to where heat radiates from in between Sam's legs.

Sam is just aroused as Dean. "Touch me, too," Dean hears.

He does. It's strange. _Feels_ strange. Sam kneads Dean's dick through his pants and everything else but that becomes unimportant.

Once the zippers are taken care of, it takes barely a handful of strokes from that incredible hand to make Dean come. Sam makes it to about thirty from Dean's, and the entire thing completely humiliates Dean for only about five minutes. Sam drops the alienated napkins on top of the table and zips his pants back up, returns to Dean and bows down to kiss the knuckles of the hand he is holding up to his mouth.

Dean watches him do all this and avoids eye contact with any of the staff members when they finally leave.


	3. Chapter 3

It turns out Sam's promise was absolutely reliable. At work, nobody would think they had any interest in hanging out with each other outside of business hours. Sure, spotless politeness and toothpaste ad smiles are a constant factor - but that's something _everyone_ gets from Sam, and also something everybody gets from Dean. They choose restaurants and bars with exclusive areas and always turn up in suits, always an innocent alibi on hand. It's surprisingly easy. Not that Dean didn't have an occasional panic attack over all this, but it could be worse. Way, way worse.

Everything is surprisingly easy, actually. Dean works hours after hours which is good and satisfying just as much as it is obligatory in his position as "the new guy", so there is not much opportunity to meet up anyway. They run into each other at the gym every now and then and some of those times Sam proposes dinner. To their defense: the first few times, they really actually _do_ go out for dinner.

Sam's way of thinking is good to work with, and the other half of the time Dean simply doesn't think about anything at all. He likes Sam, Sam likes him, and they have drinks and get each other off. It's simple, and it's convenient - no strings attached. It's healthy to blow off some steam and his body (to Dean's utter surprise) doesn't seem to mind the gender of the person attached to a generous hand or mouth. That's quite a bit of news. It's one of those thoughts Dean likes to push into the "not thinking about anything at all" timeframes.

Sam doesn't make a big deal out of their "thing" and that's exactly what Dean needs. Sam doesn't push him and leaves Dean enough space. There are no questions asked as to any whys. They work together, so his boss knows exactly what Dean means when he says that he really can't today, sorry. Sam knows when to push, when to let go. They really are good together.

So at week six, Dean finds himself being kissed senseless against a wall of Sam's private elevator. One thing had led to another, maybe, and that was all the explanation Dean had needed when Sam had suggested going to his place this time. Surprisingly easy. "Jesus Christ," Dean wheezes. Sam Wesson owns a loft in the city's priciest neighborhood, top floor, and the open living space they enter through the front door already is five times Dean's entire apartment. Sam Wesson easily paid a five digit bill for this. Sam Wesson, CEO of the multimillion dollar company Courtman and Styles Ltd., can get passionate enough to throw one hundred and fifty pounds of male fling over his shoulder and carry them over to his couch to drop them there. The designer probably thought about the particular shape of the armrests a lot, but all Dean's brain come up with is the notion of "wow, holy shit" (which isn't even directed at the couch). Sam kisses him with lots of tongue while he makes short work of both button and zipper of Dean's pants. Before Dean decided if he enjoys being manhandled like that, Sam's hand whips Dean's cock out with an easiness that lets all worries dissolve into nothing.

Dean groans into his now-not-boss' mouth the moment that hand starts moving. It's definitely better than his own per se, but in addition, Sam has this mind-blowing technique Dean can never pay much attention to in order to learn and apply to himself. It's addicting, really.

On his back, breathless, seeing stars and slightly worrying about his shoes on the couch, Dean slaps his hands into his face when Sam's mouth seamlessly travels from Dean's lips to his dick. That's a rather new development, and Dean still hasn't exactly gotten used to it. Sam does this thing where he goes down to the base and then twists his head, which is the most impressive move anyone has ever performed on Dean. If he wasn't so mortified of the entire practice itself, he could enjoy this without grinding his teeth.

For someone who labels himself "not gay", Sam sure knows what he is doing. Dean is nowhere close to that confidence. So when Sam makes him come as if it was the easiest thing in the world, guilt quickly washes away that post-orgasmic bliss. And so when Sam tries to kiss him, Dean turns his head away, earns a chuckle. Sam moves Dean's hand to where he obviously needs it most. "It's your own. Nothing to be ashamed of."

"I just can't," Dean presses. He applies his usual technique to Sam's cock and his turn is way shakier, more uneasy. He watches the fat head popping in and out of the circle of his fingers, oozing at the slit. Sam is - to put it very bold - hung. Dean wouldn't say he is on the small side either, but this is... a challenge by itself. Dean isn't too sure how he feels about it. Touching is okay, somehow. Looking is tolerable. Oral is unimaginable.

The potential taste, the smell... no, just no. It's disgusting and terrible. The thought itself brings sweat to Dean's forehead. Sam is bent down over him, almost straddling him, one knee on the couch, one arm on the backrest. He shifts brings his hips forward, and Dean can't turn his face into the pillows fast enough. "No, I- No."

Sam pulls back immediately. "Okay."

"I'm sorry. Shit. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's okay." Then, "What if I washed it, right before you...? Would that help?"

 _No_ , Dean thinks. "I... I don't know," he mutters.

"Should we try?"

"Uh... mh." He winces, cringes. He really doesn't want to. But the pressure has been building with every time he didn't reciprocate... this. Sam never mentions it, never even actually _tries_ anything. It's an unspoken thing between them and Dean can imagine how obvious his body language must be. Sam is very patient. Sam tolerates Dean's boundaries. For Dean, "disgust" has slowly but surely passed its first place to "guilt". It has reached a critical level. So Dean puffs his exhale, nods into his hands. "... Okay. Yeah."

Sam's smile appears in the Christmas morning edition. "Yeah," he repeats, a little dumb, a little young. Dean feels his cheeks heating up under this bold anticipation. "Give me a minute."

Dean stays where he is and strains his ears to follow Sam's movements. He hears a shower going and checks his pulse on his neck. Worrisome. He lets out a shaky exhale, tucks his dick back into his pants. Reminding himself of his shoes yet again, he sits up and smoothens the spots he messed up. When the shower stops again already, Dean hasn't even started to really look around himself. Glass fronts. No plants. Breathtaking view over the rooftops of the city.

Dean stares for a shocked second or two at Sam's buck-naked body when it reaches his field of vision. Then, he blinks. Not even a towel. Just... nothing. Usually, they don't even take off their _pants_. Sam runs his hand over his still wet cock. In this combination, the two things are weirdly well-proportioned. "Is this okay?"

 _I don't know_ , Dean wants to say, but Sam already closed in on him and crowded him back against the couch, cock still in his hand like a damn weapon. Dean's hands are on those hips to keep them at bay, but they are insistent. He swallows, licks his lips, stares. Well. The soap scent definitely helps a little bit. Thing is: This is still a penis.

Water from Sam's hair is dripping down on Dean's head. Dean can't stop staring, lets it be handed to him, cautiously jerks it with a too-loose hand.

"It's not as disgusting as you think it is," Sam tries.

Dean grunts in response.

"I promise." A soft push of hips. The tip comes dangerously close to Dean's cheek. "Start slow. Try kissing it."

"Hm." Not convincing. But damn, he said he'd try. Nobody died from trying yet. It's only a penis. You have the exact same thing between your legs and he sucked yours plenty of times. Get over your damn OCDs and buck up.

"Please, Dean." Sam has this amazing voice. It listens to him perfectly. He has this way of turning it low and secret like a whisper without actually whispering. It makes Dean's skin bubble into goosebumps. "Just a little. Do it for me."

Okay, that's it. Dean takes another flat draught of air, steadies his fist around the base and then leans forward to run his tongue over the tip. Just once, and Sam is already groaning. So Dean does it again. The texture is peculiar. Even if he felt his own millions of times on his hands, it's very different on his tongue. Slippery, smooth. He goes again, puts his lips over it just a little, just up to his teeth. A sudden spurt of bitterness, and he recoils immediately.

"Are you okay?"

He covers his mouth, pushes Sam off with the other.

"... Are you going to...?"

He tries not to. Not on this expensive carpet. Not on this couch. Dean swallows mouthful after mouthful of spit, but the bile keeps rising. Mortified, he nods.

"Oh shit."

Fortunately for everyone involved, they get Dean over the toilet bowl quick enough. Unfortunately for Dean, throwing up is amongst the top five of things he avoids at all costs. He empties his stomach into Sam's designer toilet and is grateful for the fact that Sam doesn't hover over him with his hand rubbing soothing circles into his back. Exhausted from the heaving, he spits the little bit of spit he was left with and flushes the toilet. Sam is there but isn't touching him, and that is good. Sink, tap water, gargling. Sam hands him mouthwash without a comment. Dean uses it, puts it aside, splashes his face with water. The Dean in the mirror is too pale. The Dean in front of the mirror realizes he has nothing to brush his teeth with. Again, without a word, Sam opens a drawer and produces a still packaged toothbrush. Dean almost sobs his "thanks".

Two minutes. Dean counts the seconds. He lets his gaze wander over the bathroom's reflection in the mirror he is facing, not particularly lingering on anything. Sam is behind him, still naked, waiting. He looks calm, almost serene. The light grey stone tiles make that tanned skin stand out perfectly. Dean has seen it couple of times in the gym showers, the sauna. Color slowly starts returning into his face as he realizes that they are in Sam's home right now. Very private. Doesn't get much more private, to be exact. A big step somehow. Sam must really trusts Dean if he is taking him up here.

Dean rinses, spits, cleans the toothbrush. Warmth closes in on him from behind; must be Sam. Dean receives one, two, three kisses to the back of his neck, above his shirt's collar. Strong, perfect arms circle his waist, don't put much pressure on his stomach but are definitely there, holding him.

"Better?"

"Yeah." Dean starts to turn around in Sam's hold. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

"I could… Uh, the toilet, I…"

"Leave it to the maid."

"Oh. Okay." A soft kiss to Dean's lips. He feels his eyelids fluttering shut under this gentleness. Sam's body heat makes relaxing easier. It feels good to be held close like this. It has taken some time to be able to honestly say that, but Dean eventually got there. It's good with Sam.

The kiss gets sweeter, heated with time. The sensation of freshly brushed teeth is so satisfying, so calming to Dean that it's easy to forget why he had to do it in the first place. It's easy to place his hands on this tight, buzzing skin of his fling, his affair, not-boss. He feels good, so Dean's hands roam a bit, small of back and to beginning of buttocks, back up, to the sides. He can feel Sam's muscles twitching here, then shifting. Something starts pressing up against his leg, and Dean wraps his hand around it before he can think of anything else.

A contended sound from Sam. Dean licks into his mouth and pumps his cock in long, lazy strokes. He likes its weight in his hand, the drag of silky skin. Sam's hands drift up Dean's back to finally cup his face. They are so warm, so big. It feels good to be touched by them. They still smell faintly of soap. Sam must have showered from head to toe, just for Dean, just because Dean has this thing with body smells and germs and what-not. Just for Dean. Because Sam cares. Because Sam wants him to enjoy this.

Dean changes the angle of his hand and is rewarded with a deep sigh. Sam withdraws from the kiss but lets their foreheads rest against each other, tips of nose as well, runs his thumbs over Dean's cheeks. Eyes closed in bliss, he bites his lip, brows a little furrowed. Dean likes the mole to the left of Sam's nose.

"Hmmm." It sounds like the beginning of something, but nothing follows.

So Dean returns a, "Hm?"

"Jus' thinking." Sam's voice is close and quiet, deeply lost in his arousal. Dean brings another hand to where the first is slowly picking up its efforts. Sam's breath hitches at that and a smile dances over his mouth for a second. "Jus' thinking that, uh. Your stomach is empty now, isn't it."

Dean blinks.

"Nothing can happen anymore, right? Now that it's all out?"

Dean opens his mouth to say that this is not the point. Sam's thumb drifts over its corner though, across his bottom lip, and Dean forgets his line.

"Your mouth. Goddamn."

The digit probes a little deeper and tastes of soap and nothing. Clean. It pushes against the tip of his tongue and Dean gingerly presses back.

"Would look so good all stretched around my cock."

Dean feels himself flush from root of hairs down to his chest. His mouth starts watering and he wonders if Sam can feel it with how he now slowly pumps his thumb in and out of Dean's mouth. He purses his lips a little, just a little, and it reminds him of earlier. He closes his eyes and squeezes his hands harder.

"C'mon. I promise you'll like it. Just give it a chance."

The idea sounds like something Dean could come to terms with. He really wants to believe in it. Everything would be so much easier if these nagging voices in his head wouldn't freak him out 24/7 about all these meaningless things - and he _knows_ they are meaningless, but the voices don't care about what Dean knows. He sucks a little harder around Sam's thumb, but it withdraws, smears his own spit into the corner of his mouth, across his cheek.

These strong hands slide from Dean's cheeks down his throat, settle on his shoulders - and softly push down.

Dean feels oddly bare all of a sudden, feels his skin heating up even more, stares up into Sam's dark, dark eyes, the full curve of those lips. Sam presses a little harder, and Dean's heart throbs even faster.

He lets his knees give in with Sam's next push. It doesn't get him far, but the change in Sam's expression is stunning. Like a light going off. His heart is on his tongue as Dean starts to slowly drop down to his knees. In front of Sam. In between Sam and bathroom sink. In Sam's bathroom. Sam's private home. Sam's.

His knees haven't fully settled on the floor when Sam's hands find his head, hold it steady. Dean can get a short glimpse of the angrily colored cockhead before it humps at his cheek. He didn't expect it, opens his mouth to gasp, hands still wrapped around its base, and the smell is not as clean as before. Headier, strange. Still clean, still skin and soap, but it's sticky where it met Dean's skin. The next push brings it against Dean's lips, teeth, and he opens wider in a reflexed attempt not to harm Sam. The opportunity is taken - the head slips right inside and over Dean's tongue.

Dean flinches. It earns him a bump of back of head against the sink. Well, not really, because Sam's hands are a barrier between the two; but still, Dean is pinned here. Sam's hips withdraw, push back in. Dean trembles. Even though the taste is subtle, his body remembers. He tries to crane his neck, to get away, but Sam's cock follows.

Dean gags. It hurts his stomach, cramps his throat. Nothing comes. Not even water. Nothing.

Sam pulls back, pushes in. Repetition, same effect. Still, nothing.

Dean feels frozen, caught. His eyes start tearing, and he hauls for air when Sam fully withdraws from his mouth, feels spit drooling from his bottom lip, tries to lick it off, to swallow. Sam pushes back in.

It's a bit surreal. Dean is not so sure if this is how it actually happens. His perception is reduced to his mouth alone, to the sensation and smell and taste of Sam's cock as it fucks into it. It's gentle, nowhere close to triggering his gag reflex. Cautious, careful. Slow.

Dean blinks through senseless tears, lets his right hand slip from cock to pubic bone, spans there, feels neatly trimmed hairs that rush against his fingertips as Sam moves.

"So good. You're doing so good, Dean."

Slightly further drop of jaw, more space in his mouth. Change in thought - tighter mouth, tension to his lips. The flared head catches on its way out. The sensation makes the back of Dean's neck burn.

He is _doing_ this. This is _happening_.

"Fuck yes."

A little deeper, a little closer; Sam's fingers scratching over Dean's scalp, calming and rewarding and soft, and Dean tries to suckle - succeeds. His stomach heaves but he tenses against it, pushes his reflexes away. Sam groans. Dean's soft hum is being muffled.

"You're amazing. Look at you. Oh my God."

Praise makes him braver. They figured that one out rather fast, but it's still exciting to Dean how much it turns him on in return. He can't exactly get completely hard this soon again, but his dick makes clear efforts. When Sam withdraws next time to give Dean a moment to recollect, he chases his cock with his mouth and swallows it down by himself. It responds with a throb and a burst of slick. Dean rolls his tongue around the head while breathing the shudders away.

It doesn't take much longer until Sam declares that he wants to come into Dean's mouth. Dean replies that he isn't sure if he wants that. "On your face, then," Sam pants, jerking his dick in blurred motions. Dean makes a face and hesitantly drops his jaw anew. Sam huffs a laugh that melts into a groan as he drives his cock into the slick cave that is Dean's mouth.

Even though he knew it would come any second, the gushing still startles Dean. One of Sam's hands on the back of his head keeps him in place, the other wrings where Dean's lips don't reach; spurt after spurt of come. Dean whimpers but can't exactly turn his head. The consistency is sickening; sticky and thick. Bitter, strong taste. Sam fills his mouth and Dean wishes he could keep it all on the bare tip of his tongue to avoid the taste at least a little.

Dean makes a face when Sam finally pulls back, purses his lips, scrambles to his feet. He spits the mouthful straight into the sink's drain.

Behind him, Sam chuckles a little breathlessly as Dean grabs toothpaste and brush once more. "Dude."

He doesn't answer, can't, doesn't want to. He can't get rid of the taste fast enough. The brush works furiously, even over his tongue. _Especially_ over his tongue. Oh God.

Sam watches him in the mirror, laughs, runs his hand through his hair. Dean doesn't stop him when he steps behind him, lets his hand drift from waistband of pants down to Dean's crotch. "Oh," Dean hears. He glares at Sam's amused reflection. "Looks like someone enjoyed this."

"Fhut up," he mutters.

Another chuckle, a kiss to the side of his neck. He feels sweaty. He wonders if Sam would leave him alone for a shower. "You were amazing, pet. Thank you, really. I'm so proud of you."

Dean frowns at the nickname. They don't do nicknames. Still, he crumbles under the sweet words. Still glaring, he concentrates on his scrubbing task.

Sam smacks his ass, and the impact makes him sway. "Hurry up. Almost time for the game."

Dean stares intently at the red splotches on his reflection's cheeks while Sam exits the bathroom. 

~ 

The next time it happens, they're at Sam's and on the couch again, a little tipsy from some fancy German beer Sam wanted to try. Dean only gags once and manages to keep his stomach contents down, too. Sam praises him with hotly huffed whispers. Sam's come ends up in Dean's not completely empty glass, and he feels guilty for wasting the perfectly good beer once he realizes. Sam gets him a new glass and bottle without a word and later sends him home in a cab with a kiss to his hand and a smile on his lips.

It takes a few dates and some practice, but eventually Dean swallows without thinking about it, too caught up in the moment, too out of it with his own hand on his dick while sucking Sam off. Everything stops then and there though, and he throws up on the bedroom rug. This time, Sam _does_ rub his back, but only because Dean is sobbing his heart out over how sorry and embarrassed he is. He wants to dissolve into thin air, sink into the depths of earth. Before he knows, he is hyperventilating in Sam's arms, pressed tight against his chest, holding on for his dear life. A panic attack in front of his boss slash lover. Very professional. He cries some more.

That night, he stays over for the first time. Sam rinses the rug as thoroughly as he feels like doing it and spreads it on the balcony to dry. Probably not a too bright idea in the beginning of fall, but at least the smell doesn't get to them that way. Sam wraps himself around Dean like a human blanket, and Dean, exhausted and horrified Dean, holds him back just as tight. Sam's bed is gigantic and soft, freshly made, luxurious beddings. They were on here several times now, but never both at the same time, never under the covers. Sam lent Dean one of his tees and shorts to sleep in, and Dean is dizzy with all the fine smells surrounding him, the warmth, the safety radiating from every little part of this perfect picture. Dean falls asleep with his ear pressed to Sam's chest, that heart a calm lullaby. The next morning begins with coffee and scrambled eggs in bed - at five AM. It's a workday, and Dean completely forgot. Sam didn't. Dean's chest flutters with his wholeheartedly relieved sigh. He eats with appetite even though he can tell that there is butter in there somewhere. He simply doesn't care.

Work is wonderful, fulfilling. Seeing Sam every now and then is the cherry on top. They shout a greeting across the corridor, smile, nod, give a pat on back or shoulder. Usual office behavior, safe, inconspicuous. They are Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson in here, first names never slipping. Professional masks sit tight and perfect. It's a good life.

Sam shares his tailor secret in the midst of November. Mr. Smith finds himself on a podium and slightly nervous as a voluminous elderly lady takes his measurements. He throws a worried look over to Mr. Wesson who is sipping brandy on ice with his long legs elegantly crossed where he is seated in an old leather chair. Sam's mouth twitches into a soft smile, telling Dean not to worry. Mr. Smith exhales in a huff through his nose, tries a smile as well, looks down to where the lady is asking for his cooperation. He trusts.

The suit is finished in perfect time: one day shy of the company's Christmas party. Sam reschedules his business lunch so that they can pick it up at the tailor's together. They sip coffee on their way there, snow softly tumbling down to the city's many surfaces, their hair, their shoulders under their thick wool coats. When Dean looks up at Sam to pose another question, the man is smiling about something they just talked about, cheeks and tip of nose a little red from the harsh cold, smallest and softest lines around his eyes, dimples deep in his perfectly shaved cheeks. Dean sees all this and feels his heart going wide with the urge to kiss Sam. To hold his hand. To hook his arm into Sam's. Here and now. He doesn't, but the thought won't leave him for a long time.

There's champagne and lobster, clever little canapés. Mr. Smith is wearing his new suit on his body and Mr. Wesson is wearing a beautiful lady on his arm. She's a hostess, stunning and clever; the perfect jewel to wear to an evening like this. Mr. Smith was advised to do the same. A good way to avoid talking amongst the colleagues, Mr. Wesson said. Whoring around is nothing to be ashamed of for a young, wealthy gentleman. It leaves the elderlies nodding in approval and the younger ones gaping in jealousy. But Mr. Smith refused, even after Mr. Wesson assured him that it's only for show, Dean, that these girls are worn like jewelry, like a wristwatch: paid and put away again just as easy. Dean said that no, he couldn't pretend this - not this. It had felt weird to say it out loud, and Sam had looked at him differently, had hesitated before he spoke again (about another topic altogether, thank God). Dean had averted his eyes, had felt his heart racing. It's nothing he ever talked about. Pretending is something you do, simply _do_ , don't think about, don't communicate about. That destroys the illusion. Dean _needs_ illusions.

So they spend a nice evening, not together, do not even talk at all. Being aware that they're both in the same room, enjoying themselves together and yet not feels odd to Dean. The champagne at five hundred dollar a bottle tastes too fizzy, too wrong. Dean's tongue yearns for the soft hug of a whiskey or Sam's skin (most preferably both). Deep in a conversation, Dean lets his gaze wander without thinking about it, without a destination in mind. He finds his mark across the room, between all the familiar and not-so familiar faces. Sam's dark brown eyes, the gentle line of his nose, dark lashes. They're gone again just as quick as they came, leaving Dean with a heart that missed a beat.

The cab driver is wearing a Santa hat and Dean is tired and tipsy enough to have a little laugh and conversation. They talk about the driver's family back in Iran, and the twinkle in the man's eyes as he talks about his sister's pending wedding makes Dean feel a little less lonely on this Christmas Eve. Jo had invited him to spend the holidays with her and her family. He had declined in favor of being present at his new company's Christmas party. It had been worth it, he tells himself.

Back home and in front of his door, Dean searches his coat's pockets for his keys. As he finds them, his phone vibrates right against his fingers. He pulls it out, turns on the screen. One new message from Wesson.

_After party?_

Dean remains unmoved, stares down at the illuminated screen. His thumb hovers for a moment, two.

He types three letters and hits enter before he heads straight back to the elevator.

The Iranian Santa and him gape at each other for an instant before breaking into laughter. Sam's address feels warm on Dean's tongue as he sinks down into the backseat. The city flies by, never fast enough tonight.

Sam changed into a fresh shirt, crispy white and perfect like the messy curls of his hair. Dean doesn't exactly make it past a breathless "hi" before he is dragged into loft and starving mouth.

Usually, they don't undress. It's easier and faster to just shove pants out of the way, sometimes pull a shirt up a belly. So it should feel weird to have Sam stripping him piece by piece as they are making their way across the spacy rooms, Sam walking backwards, never stopping the kiss, Dean breathless from when the way from elevator to door was too long to be crossed calmly. By the time Sam has gotten rid of coat and suit jacket and currently works on the tie, Dean realizes he is fumbling past the first half of Sam's shirt's buttons. He would gasp if he had the capacities to do so, but he doesn't mind that he doesn't.

It would be excessive to say that they were "making love" - their usual program consists of hand jobs and the occasional blow job, and sometimes they kiss. Afterwards, they either talk business or watch a game, have a round of drinks until Dean leaves for the gym and/or home. They are not a couple. It's uncomplicated, and they like each other, and it works out for both of them. None of this is anywhere close to what Dean would define as a relationship. But that's okay. That's alright. He likes the way it works. It's better than that, actually.

It's easy, and he doesn't have to think or worry. Sam puts Dean's hands where he wants them to be, whispers about the best location for those pretty lips, groans for a tongue and the sweet pressure of a throat. Dean let him push his cock farther down a while ago, until it hit the back of his throat and then some, and as strange and suffocating as it was, it also was the most powerful Dean had ever felt with Sam. The sheer thought that it was possible to do this, to get Sam's cock down that deep…! Revelation, really. It had taken a very long time, but he eventually made it. Sam had made him make it. They had worked on and achieved it together. It's a turn-on for Dean like nothing he has ever known.

They are far from naked but already in front of the bed, so they continue working on that while standing more or less still. Sam tastes of whiskey, couldn't wait, and Dean won't hold it against him. Sam growls when he can finally tug Dean's shirt from his arms, throws it across the room. Dean feels himself tensing up, heat rising from champagne-belly up to the tips of his ears, spanning into his chest where Sam's eyes are plastered, where he told him a few weeks ago how hot it looked when Dean was wearing suspenders. That one particular pair miraculously happened to stretch exactly over his nipples, and Dean had never really thought about that until Sam had slipped his fingers between suspenders and shirt and tugged at the skin underneath. Dean doesn't like his chest (not any part of his body, if he was honest) - but Sam did. Never asked to see or to touch, but Dean knew, felt the eyes, the heat behind them. Now, it's strange to be this exposed, so naked under these deep stares, yes... but Dean had expected it to be worse. Much worse. When he really thinks about it, it's maybe even not that bad at all. A little good.

Sam surges forward to latch at his neck, to kiss deeper, finds the line where there usually is a stiff collar - passes it. Dean feels himself starting to shake, puts his hands on Sam's biceps' for leverage. Every heave of his chest drives it closer to Sam's face, against the kissing mouth, the tip of nose, chin. A flick of tongue sends Dean wincing. When it finds his nipple, Dean's throat makes a sound before he can stop it. He can feel Sam inhaling deep through his nose before he presses his face up against Dean's chest mouth-first. Dean trembles with a moan. Sam sucks with his mouth wet and wide open, rolls his tongue, holds Dean close and closer against himself with his hands pressing down below his shoulder blades. Dean's hands fly from arms to hair. It feels as if his breath was being punched out of his lungs.

The world is shifting as Sam moves him too quickly for Dean to do something about it. Dean lands on his back on the bed, chest heaving and dress pants definitely too tight, but Sam follows on his knees and gets rid of them; Dean's underwear right along. It's rough and strangely animalistic, but Dean thinks he might like this just when the entire undressing business gets put on hold due to complicated lacing of shoes. Both have to laugh because it's so stupid, because this is _real_ , and reality sometimes means untying your shoes with your dick out.

Sam crawls up Dean's body to kiss the laughter deep into Dean's lungs, and Dean takes the opportunity to toe off the damn shoes, struggles with the socks but eventually gets rid of every piece of clothing on his body. Sam is impressively bendy and unties his shoes without breaking the kiss, still on his knees, limbs bending hard enough to hurt, and Dean steadies him with two strong hands on those shoulders, round and flexing and perfect. As much effort as he put into not getting up for his shoes, Sam sits back on his haunches to undo his fly, eyes plastered over the mess he made out of Dean's mouth, bitten and kissed into plumpness. Dean thinks his eyes feel a little too wet, his face a little to heated, so he helps tugging at Sam's pants until they succeed in pulling them off of Sam; underwear, too.

Sam is a work of art, perfect from head to toe. Every muscle and pore on point, straining with power and confidence. Sam is sweating a little, but Dean doesn't exactly mind while he runs his hands up that wide chest, fine hairs catching between the webbings of his fingers, bumping over a prominent collarbone, up a neck and into long, wonderful hair. Sam watches him through all of it and Dean swears he can see the other one's pulse in the trembling of that mouth. That body starts stretching, lowering, until it hovers right over Dean's, maybe a hand's width between them. Sam is balancing his weight on knees and elbows.

That mouth hovers over his own for a beat, another, and Dean's twitches a little in anticipation. Sam's eyes are dark enough to drown in them. Dean has to close his own once he is finally, finally kissed again.

They never did it like this before. Completely naked. Body on body, skin on skin. Dean's hands in Sam's hair, mouths never parting. Their cocks are rubbing against each other in the sweet pressure of their stomachs, slick and way too hot already, but it's perfect and exactly what they need tonight, so Dean does not even spend as much as one little worry on how many hours ago his last shower had taken place.

Sam's hips shove and pull back, and Dean's meet the movements in perfect harmony. It starts slow but gets heavier soon; too impatient, too urgent. Dean feels like parting his legs to get more leverage, and Sam shifts and rearranges until they're both comfortable again, drifting against each other in powerful waves.

Dean pulls Sam down with his elbows on the other one's back, hands still fisted into his hair. Sam's grunts come softly and make Dean's teeth vibrate along with them. They get louder once Dean allows hushed ones of his own, barely-there sighs that turn Sam wilder, harder. Dean can barely get enough air with Sam's weight bearing down on him like this, but that's okay. Everything is okay.

They come not much longer. There is no need to hold back, to prolong anything. It's perfect the way it is and the way it happens. It's as easy as that. But oh, is it nice. Different, too - how Sam quivers in his arms exactly when it starts for Dean himself, how that mouth gets wetter and wider and tenses, groans loud, almost a sob, perfect twin to Dean's silenced choke. The slide gets wetter, uncoordinated; eventually sticky, messy. Dean tries to get his legs out and around Sam to wrap them around his hips, and Sam makes it possible the instant he notices it. So Dean presses him closer, raging hot mess in between their stomachs slowing down to a dull throbbing, sated and warm. Sam keeps kissing the side of Dean's mouth, cheek, jaw, all while allowing the two of them to catch their breath.

The grinding eventually dies off completely. They stay entangled, wrapped around each other, holding on, breathing slowly climbing down into normal patterns. Sam's weight lowers itself further, his head droops, and Dean decides that it is wonderful to be buried like this.

There is no complaint from neither of them as they rest in silence. Slowly, the sounds from what must be a Christmas party from the loft underneath announce themselves back into their reality. Dean blinks his eyes open very slowly, but Sam is quicker and gently rolls down from him, leaving Dean naked and sticky and cold. He looks down on himself and wrinkles his nose at the sight.

Sam does the same after running a hand down his own stomach and taking a look at it. "... Shower."

"Shower," Dean replies even though it wasn't a question.

A quick rinse before Sam suggests the Jacuzzi. They get in as soon as Sam brought the whiskey and two tumblers. The water is heavenly. Dean relaxes immediately and almost sheds a tear over how perfect the heat and whiskey work together. Sam drapes an arm around his shoulders and he gladly leans against the offered space. Christmas songs from underneath and buzzing of bubbling water around them, they finish three glasses each before getting out.

They are very drunk now and Dean has no idea how they make it back into the bedroom without at least one broken bone. Sam towels Dean dry and vice versa, and Sam is hard again even before Dean is finished with his chest. Whiskey kisses are smoother, slicker. Sam's towel falls as Dean finds better use for his hands while Sam keeps him wrapped inside his one until he is tired of biting Dean's nipples to a dark pink.

Again, on his back; Sam again on his knees; no, all fours. Dean's tired eyes fall closed and nothing really matters. Everything is blurry and fuzzy and nice, everything feels good. So Dean doesn't mind that Sam climbs over him so that they are both facing each other's crotches. It feels good to get his mouth around Sam's cock, just like it feels good to get Sam's mouth around his own. Dean runs his hands up and down Sam's back, his ass, the back of his thighs. He doesn't mind the warm, warm hand that drifts from his stomach down his hips, thighs, knee; not even that it cups his balls and fondles them. Dean mirrors that, and Sam lets his hips sink a little deeper. He's got more than a mouthful now, and he doesn't mind at all.

They get soft at some point, and that's alright with them. Sam swings his leg over Dean's head, turns, lies down next to him while Dean gathers the covers from underneath himself. He pulls them over the two of them and it takes maybe one breath each until they are out for good.

It's still dark when Dean opens his eyes again. The music from below has faded. Not far away from his face, Sam is watching him with small but awake eyes.

Dean exhales through his nose, shifts a little. His arm is draped over Sam's body, their legs entwined somehow. It's warm and comfortable even though they are naked - _because_ they are naked. The thought sounds easy in Dean's mind.

"Can ask you something?" Sam hums.

Dean keeps looking at him. He doesn't think of anything. It's a nice way of being. "Go ahead."

"... It might be weird."

"Try me."

A faint smile, drooping lashes. God, the man is beautiful. "Okay," he breathes.

Dean feels himself smile in return. Sam looks as young as Dean feels.

"I was thinking, that... that I would like us to stop seeing other people."

Both their smiles drift away. It is not like they are unhappy or shocked. It is more like drifting in a wide space without many ups and downs.

"How does that sound to you?" It's more quiet, hesitant.

Dean blinks a few times, takes a deep breath.

"... If it's too soon, then I..."

"No," he interrupts softly. "No, that's not... That's not it." And that is the truth. As bizarre as it is - it's really, honestly the truth. The fact renders Dean speechless yet again.

The very first beginnings of a smile. Hurt, unsure. "Then what?"

Dean opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. A million things. A million reasons. They all boil down to fear. Fear that has nothing to do with Sam, to what they have. But it's clinging to Dean, tugging at his seams. He swallows. "Are... _are_ you seeing anyone besides...?"

"No," comes the immediate answer. Then, shier, after Dean doesn't react, "You?"

Dean shakes his head. "No."

Silence. Nervousness climbs up Dean's spine. He doesn't dare to move.

After a while, Sam starts speaking again. He almost whispers the words, like a secret. Dean loves it when Sam whispers to him. "It's nothing set in stone. It won't change much, would it? I'm not talking a hundred percent commitment here. It just that, uhm." A beat. Dean keeps looking into those eyes. "It's... When I imagine you with someone else, I... That hurts." A thumb finds Dean's cheek. Sam's voice dips even lower. "I don't want that."

 _I want you for myself_ , Dean hears. The thumb feels nice where it rubs over his beginnings of stubble. Again, he blinks. "I can relate," he mutters.

Sam's eyes grow a bit bigger at that. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Feels soft in his throat. Feels good and nice. Right.

Hesitant smile that grows wider along with Dean's. "Yeah?" Another question, an earlier one.

Dean knows its meaning. "Yeah," he breathes.

The corners of Sam's eyes glisten when he closes them in a breathless, relieved laugh.

Dean can relate to that, too.


	4. Chapter 4

They take separate cabs as usual, a handful of minutes apart - cautiousness trumps Christmas spirit. The city and its traffic are quiet on this slow Christmas morning. Instead of going to work, most people are at home with their loved ones. Dean has some time to tie up loose ends that inevitably slipped past his attention in those last busy weeks. A little breather is a welcomed gift, and he takes it.

With his tie flipped over his shoulder and his jacket discarded over his chair's back, Dean tackles pile after pile of papers. Hours fly by. Lunch doesn't even occur to him. Before he knows, it's dark outside. Puzzled, he watches the snow fall for a while before deciding for a cup of coffee. He circles his head on his neck as he walks and figures out how the machine (which Rhonda usually operates for him) generates a well needed shot of caffeine. It pours. He braces himself on the counter, watches the snowflakes' shadows on the deserted meeting room's table and floor.

Dean cradles the warm cup in his hands, leans with his back against the counter. Some offices over, someone is talking on the phone. In another, a printer is doing its work. Dean sips his coffee. He is not the only Grinch at CS.

A door down the corridor opens and Mr. Wesson guides a business partner outside. Dean watches his boss smile and then laugh, loud and not too superficial for it to show. They shake hands and the man walks off. As Mr. Wesson turns to watch him leave, he notices Mr. Smith at the coffee machine. It's just a tiny moment but Mr. Smith is aware of it, of the warmth that suddenly lies in those eyes. He lowers his gaze into his coffee. The stranger passes Dean, and now him and Mr. Wesson are alone on the corridor.

Mr. Wesson sighs, shoves his hands into his pants' pockets. He is wearing the charcoal suit today. Dean likes the charcoal suit.

Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson share a moment of contended silence over the more than polite distance. Mr. Wesson's smile is soft, almost absent. His hair falls into his eyes when he turns to look out of the glass front Mr. Smith had been eyeing just a few moments ago. Now, Mr. Smith watches the snow's shadows slide over Mr. Wesson's profile.

Mr. Smith eventually returns to his office. Since it's so quiet today, he could leave the door ajar. He decides not to.

Sitting down in front of his work yet again, he finds it hard to regain his composure. Last night's developments come back to him.

He said yes. A relationship. This is a relationship, isn't it? And he said yes.

He stares at the papers in front of him without seeing any of the letters. In his chest, his heart flutters. That's nothing necessarily positive. But it felt good the moment he agreed. He likes being with Sam. There seems to be no pressure. Dean likes that. With Sam, it feels like finally being able to breathe. Even though Sam is a guy.

A guy.

Hours later, the vibration of his phone makes Dean aware of the time; almost eight PM. Resigning, he starts tidying up while absently tapping his phone to get to the message he just received.

Wesson: _Dinner?_

Dean checks the time again, sighs again.

You: _Sorry, busy day. Friday maybe._

Almost done with clearing the desk far enough to be able to pick up work again tomorrow, Dean gets a hold of his now not only vibrating but also _ringing_ phone.

Chattering in the background. Sounds of cutlery and glasses. "Don't tell me you're still in there." Sam sounds as amused as he sounds reproachful.

"I was just about to leave," Dean answers.

A small sound along with a breathless something.

Dean promises, "Honestly!" while he crams his belongings into his suitcase and shoulders his jacket and gym bag on. His phone is wedged between his ear and shoulder.

"Dean," Sam sighs.

"I forgot about the time." Dean locks his office. "Where are you? Sounds like a restaurant."

" _Is_ a restaurant. Family dinner."

Elevator. Nobody else seems to be left in the building. Dean presses the button for the main floor. He leans back against the wall and watches the doors sliding closed. "You didn't tell me you were going out tonight."

"Maybe because it's Christmas, Dean. Where you spend time with your _family_ , not with your emails."

Dean sighs into his phone. "You were here earlier as well."

"Maybe, but _I_ left hours ago."

Sam's voice is turned down in favor of more privacy. A secret voice, only for Dean. It soothes him and then reminds him of last night. The memory spreads a comfortable warmth in his chest. Everything looks so much easier once Sam is with him, no matter if in person or over the phone. That panic tugging at Dean every now and then is absent in these moments. There seems to be nothing to worry about. What a bizarre feeling.

On the other end of the line, Sam takes a sip of something from a glass. "Listen, what about this." Dean melts against the wall at his back. "I'll tell my folks goodbye and then I'll pick you up. You... me... a good bottle of wine...! We could get a last minute tree if you're into that."

"You just _had_ dinner," Dean reminds with weak knees.

"I have a feeling my appetite might return in your presence."

A helpless laugh. "How many drinks did you have?" He exits the elevator, waves the warden goodbye, steps outside into the cold.

"Not nearly enough to endure dad's swanky monologues."

"Hm." Dean smiles. He waves down a cab before he realizes what he is doing, sputters an apologetic, "Shit, sorry, man," to the driver and sends him off again. A U-turn back inside, a ducked and highly awkward wave to the warden. Elevator, second floor.

"What happened?"

"I, uh, had one foot in a cab before I realized that there is a reason I drag this bag around."

A deep, unnerved sigh. "You're kidding me."

"I was at my desk all day, man. If I do not at least swim a few laps, I'll-"

"Then at least tell me that you _ate_ today."

The sentence takes Dean aback so hard that those three seconds pass in a blur.

Sterner voice. "Dean Smith, you are unbelievable."

"I, uh, I-" Dean stares at the glowing buttons of the elevator. "I- I had a big breakfast, I-"

"And where did you _have_ this breakfast? Because I don't remember you having _anything_ at my place, and neither did I see you heading out for anything all day."

A mechanical voice announces the second floor. The doors open with a pling. Dean almost gets squished since he took too long to get out. His head is slowly starting to spin, his mouth opening and closing a few times before he decides for, "My- my diet is none of your fucking business! Don't you think I'm old enough to know how to feed myself?!" He's out of breath as he slams his bag on the entrance counter. "Jesus Christ," he adds.

He doesn't listen for Sam in particular while he swipes his card through the designated slot, doesn't care about the tensed silence, if he was rude just now or not. His heart is bumping up to his throat. He doesn't like being angry but what he likes even less is being treated like a child.

"Alright," Sam hums after a while, smaller, defeated.

Serves him right. "Yeah, _alright_ ," Dean bites.

"I guess you would not be pleased if I picked you up after training?"

Bag on bench. "I don't know when I'll be done here." Locker whipped open.

"I could wait in the car," Sam offers.

"Don't trouble yourself on my account."

"It would be no trouble at all."

An unnerved sigh, a tongue rolled behind teeth. "Look, Sam: I have to hang up now, okay? Your offers are really generous but today is just not gonna work. I told you earlier and I'm telling you now. So please have a nice time with your family and don't overdo it with the drinks."

Another silence, less tensed now, maybe even a little disappointed. The first bloom of guilt starts spreading in Dean's throat but he pushes it down.

"Okay. I'm sorry," hums Sam.

"Don't mention it."

"Okay." Bare background noise. "Talk to you soon then. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas." Dean hangs up.

Another hour in the gym. Shower, cab, freezing, dizzy with low blood sugar and exhaustion. Maybe a bowl of steaming hot broth. Yeah. That would be nice. He almost misses the, "Good evening, Mr. Smith," on the way from entrance to elevator, gives a weak smile and a, "Merry Christmas." In front of his door and about to fit the key into the lock, Dean's foot knocks against something. He looks down to the ground.

A small package. A note on top.

Dean bends down to grab it and enters his apartment. The package is being placed on the kitchen counter. Coat off, water boiler on.

While the water is working in the otherwise silent, unlit room, Dean stands in front of the package and takes it in as it is.

A strange emptiness leaves enough space for him to think of Claire and how she probably was showered with pink boxes and ribbons this morning, how her tiny hands grabbed and ripped on wrapping paper and with a squealing laughter that most likely brought a soft gleam to Jo's proud eyes. Dean thinks of Ben, if there is a chance that he still is in this online game phase of his.

He reaches for the note, unfolds it to read words in a familiar handwriting.

_Seldom have I felt this peaceful during this strange time of the year. Thank you for being by my side._

Behind him, the water is boiling, calming down, waiting. He lets it, doesn't even concern himself with it.

The note is put aside. Dean lays a forefinger on the gift, then his middle. He hesitates some more before prying open the taped sides. Folded back paper unravels a rectangular, slim box.

Once Dean lifted the lid, the sparse light from the tall window catches on polished silver. The stones in the cufflinks' middle are matte, seem to swallow more than there is for them - air, light, everything. Dean swipes a thumb over one of them. In their bed of velvet, they feel just as smooth.

He goes to bed and leaves the water safe in its container. Instead, he takes the box with him, shoves off his pants and climbs into bed in Henley shirt, socks and boxers.

After another ten minutes of examining the cufflinks, he gets his phone to make a few taps on it. He turns over to his side, dial-up on his ear, eyes on the box occupying the empty spot next to him.

Sam picks up by the sixth ringing.

"I didn't get _you_ anything," mutters Dean.

"Don't mention it." No other noise but Sam. Sam's soft, knowing voice, like in bed last night, as if he was right here with Dean. "Do you like them?"

"They look hella expensive."

"They really weren't. Don't worry. ... So, do you like them?"

"I do," Dean breathes. He traces one of the precious pieces. "What kind of stone is this?"

"Moss something... uh, moss agate, I think. The lady who was selling them told me it helps reducing stress. Strengthens the heart chakra or something. So - of course - I immediately thought of you."

He wants to tell Sam that he loves everything about this gift, that he is sorry for rejecting him earlier, that he cannot remember the last time someone put so much thought into something meant for him. He settles with, "They are beautiful. Thank you."

"I figured they'd go well with pretty much everything in your wardrobe. Hm... Maybe except for these uh, 'creative' suspenders. You know which ones."

Dean's lips curl in what he feels must be sympathy. "I remember you saying something different."

"That might be the to-go case, pet, but not with green cufflinks. You'll give CS a color overdose. ... You _do_ plan on wearing them at the office, right?"

"Aren't they meant for more formal use?"

"No," Sam hums. "Wear them every day. I want to see them on you, knowing that you think of me every time you put them on, every time you catch a glimpse of them during work."

Dean swallows thickly. "Okay."

"... Are you in bed right now?"

He curls in a little tighter under the blanket. His potential answer will most probably influence Sam's following questions. "... Yes." Dean's belly heats up with this single word.

"That's good." He can hear Sam's smile all the way across town. "Get some rest. Sleep tight."

Oh.

"See you tomorrow. Try sleeping in just a little bit. Just for me, alright?"

"Okay." Dean traces the box's rounded edge with his thumb. "You too. Take care."

"Bye."

"Bye."

The phone's display reads "12:07 PM". Dean turns off the alarm for the upcoming day.

~ 

The first time he puts them on is CS' New Year's Eve celebration. He combines them with a simple black and white suit and shirt combination, black suspenders, black bowtie. Dean can barely get his nerves together to look for Sam and once their eyes find each other, he knows exactly why he did so. He holds on to his share of champagne which he tries to blame his reddened cheeks on and concentrates on not stuttering in his obligatory small talks.

Sam's eyes burn holes through the back of Dean's neck, spread tingles into fingers and toes. The fact that most people are starting to get dangerously drunk at this late hour doesn't help Dean with his terror of being busted. He repeats over and over to himself that Sam would never do something stupid, that he doesn't stare at Dean as blatantly as Dean thinks he does. Sam's got this. _They've_ got this.

Midnight somehow slows down time as if they were stuck in some kind of fairytale. The fifth champagne and Dean's eyes are watering from the cold wind whipping into everyone's faces on the rooftop. Collective "ooh" and "aah" over the fireworks and all Dean can think about is that Sam and him haven't kissed since the twenty-fourth.

So close and yet so far. That's what they always say, right? Dean watches Sam watching him over countless unimportant heads, sees a tight mouth and slightly wind-destroyed hair and oh God, he needs to get out of here or _he_ will be the one doing something stupid.

A tap on a shoulder of his last small talk partner together with a, "I'll be right back," a dash down stairs and into the nearest bathroom. Lock, deep breath, placement of glass on sink, bracing himself on said sink, another deep breath. He's drunk and drained and so pent up that he is seriously considering splashing more than his face with some ice-cold water.

Two quick raps on the door send Dean jumping.

"It's me. Open up."

There have not been many opportunities in Dean's life yet where he had to accept that maybe he _is_ clumsy in the worst moments, but damn, his hand is so slippery on the doorknob that he is close to tears for the one or two miserable seconds it takes to finally get the door open.

Sam lets himself inside, steps right into Dean and lets their bodies collide, knocking all air out of him. A stabilizing, knowing arm circles around Dean's waist while Sam bangs and locks the door closed behind behind his back, all with one hand.

Dean can't get his hands around Sam's neck fast enough, right into cold, slick hair and roughened skin, presses his mouth where it belongs and where it's warm and best. It makes Sam growl and Dean feels dizzy, then even dizzier with a harsh tug on his waist, closer against Sam's body, another hand on the back of his head doing the same.

Once they part long enough to get some air in those two inches between them, Dean thinks he gasps something like, "Not here," and he thinks Sam snarls something like, "Definitely here," right before he slams Dean's back up against the tiled wall. Dean squirms and repeats his plea once more but worries fade away during the next kiss.

If he wasn't so drunk, the use of teeth on his lip would bother him. He groans another, "Oh God," half because his brain reminds him that this is a (more or less) public bathroom and half because Sam makes serious efforts to pull Dean's shirt out of his slacks and then to get said slacks open in record time. His mouth forms a silent "o" under the sensation of Sam's hot palm around his even hotter cock.

"You're dripping," he hears, and it sounds like awe, like breathlessness. Sam doesn't have to know Dean hasn't touched himself since that last time they had been together and moreover only just now realizes said fact and damn, he is not gonna last longer than maybe one full minute. Every nerve is stripped bare for Sam's slow, teasing fingers, and he doesn't even _know_ , oh, so Dean's fingers dig into perfectly ironed white and he is so so sorry and grateful and he hadn't even gotten Sam a _gift_ and _oh_ -

Sam is on his knees as quickly as he slips Dean's cock between his lips, and that's it. Even without the alcohol Dean wouldn't be able to control his hips at this point, slumps completely back against the tiles, scrambles for Sam's hair and messes that up too, right along with the shirt earlier and Sam's mouth right now. No chance to get some air, no, because Sam bobs his head even though Dean is already coming, _still_ coming, and maybe Dean curses into the oh-so private room until Sam takes heart and lets go of him.

Dean sobs into his hands without spilling a tear, not on the outside. He wants to lie down, wants to curl against Sam and sleep for two entire weeks. He wants to be fed scrambled eggs with two pounds of salted butter and drink whiskey from that deep, sweet dip between Sam's collarbones. Just before his knees actually do give out, Sam has his (still erect) cock tucked back into his underwear and grabs him, holds, shushes. Dean simply holds on with his face pressed into this shoulder.

"I missed you," he manages. He sounds terrible. It's awfully hard speaking around that lump in his throat.

"Missed you, too," Sam assures. He sacrifices one hand from Dean's back to the back of Dean's head. "I've got you. It's okay."

They sway and hold on until an invisible cue makes Dean sniffle and lift his head, makes Sam turn his head until they can kiss again. A thumb rubs over his dry, burning cheek, and maybe Dean is way deeper in this than he had planned.

"Your place or mine?" Sam whispers, warm and soft and against Dean's lips before he kisses them again, eyes closed, lashes long and dark, shutting out the entire world in this shared space.

Dean kisses before he turns away, swallows, presses his eyes into Sam's crinkled and now _wet_ dress shirt. "Yours," he chokes.

Dean looks too destroyed to return to the roof and say his goodbyes, so he heads downstairs while Sam spends another hour at the party (just to be safe). Dean's teeth are clattering and his hands are shaking but he can't get into a manned vehicle yet, instead paces a block or two in order to get that stupid, persistent water from the corners of his eyes. He throws his head back and tries to make out a piece of clear sky in between the skyscrapers, catches a small one that is instantly being filled with colorful explosions. Another last hard rub of heel of hand into his eye sockets and he flags down the next best cab, Sam's address securely between his grinding teeth.

It's a good night to get drunk. Since Dean already _is_ drunk, it seems like a good idea to cultivate this achievement. There is a nice newscast that shows New Year's celebrations around the globe. Dean is at his second whiskey by the time his phone vibrates to life.

Wesson: _30 min. You better be showered and in shirt + bowtie only._

Dean opens his mouth to inhale enough air for one scandalized but smirking gasp. He more or less carefully juggles whiskey and phone in his hands while typing with both thumbs.

You: _Mind adding ."shit-fced drunk" adn "on your lmlion dollar couch" to tht list?_

Sam's reply comes immediately. Wesson: _Mmh, absolutely. Don't slip in the shower, darling._

 _Darling_. That's a new one. Dean tries to think of a sexy comeback but fails, settles with "hasta pronto" and feels a little hilarious. Good-drunk. He's so _not_ gonna slip in the stupid shower.

A burst of alcohol-induced confidence lets Dean take a moment or two to look himself down in the gigantic bathroom mirror. He contemplates shaving but instead settles with another gulp of whiskey. Yes. Better. He turns to the side, runs a hand down his stomach, pinches into skin. Full frontal, hands resting on his hips, frowning. Another sip for good measure. Well, Sam seems to like Dean's body... no matter how weird that sounds to Dean.

He feels way better with the open shirt falling around his torso which is making him look thinner, leaner in contrast to the loose fabric. The bowtie is a little strange on his bare neck. If Sam has a thing for the Chippendales? Oh dear God, please not. Dean is not a performer. There is not nearly enough whiskey in this state to give him the needed amount of ungiven fucks to go through with something like _that_.

Only a short hesitation before he lies back down on the couch without any pants on. Sam said it was okay, so whatever. A short glance at his phone. Could be any minute now. According to his cock, Sam actually is a little late already. Dean gives a soothing tug to it before he refills his glass and watches fireworks going off in Berlin.

He turns to look over the backrest as he hears keys and finally door, feels giddy and stupid and so so happy when Sam's face appears in the hallway, searching at first and smiling wide and wider when he finds Dean. "Hi there."

"Happy New Year?" Dean tries.

Dimples. Oh, these dimples. "Yeah, happy New Year indeed." Dean watches Sam untying and eventually toeing off his shoes, sees a familiar blush and swing in that body. When Sam is drunk, he resembles a newborn deer. It's adorable, really. "Gimme a minute," Sam requests with a raised forefinger and one hand already on the bathroom door.

So Dean gives that minute and some more, ignores the urge to touch himself to take off the worst edge. He downs another glass instead and blushes harder when he makes it clear to himself how Sam hadn't come earlier... meaning that he had to stand in the cold night with what must have been pretty blue balls, at least judging by how hard he had dug his cock against Dean's leg earlier. Okay. Dean might officially be the worst boyfriend ever.

He almost spills the whiskey when his glass is taken from his hand, turns to stare up at Sam, naked, glorious and terribly sneaky-silent Sam. If the guy wasn't this gorgeous with nothing but a heavy watch around his wrist and Dean's glass in his hand, then fuck, Dean would actually think about protesting.

Sam's free hand reaches for his own painfully erect cock while he takes a slow sip from his glass, doesn't take his eyes off Dean while he gives one languid stroke from base up to tip. He flicks his wrist there, back to base, holds it straight. "C'mere," he hums.

Dean gets up on his elbow but it's not enough to reach Sam, so he goes to his knees on the sofa, places his elbows on the backrest for stability. He doesn't have to lick his lips to wetness before he parts them to take Sam inside, is ready and blissed out even prior to the praising groan from above. Sam lets him work while he holds his cock steady for Dean's mouth, hisses through his teeth after another sip of whiskey because yeah, Dean is getting pretty good at this.

"Fuck. That's it." Dean goes deeper and Sam withdraws his hand, places it on the back of his head instead and urges him even lower, chest pressed against the couch, eyes starting to water with the pressure against the back of his throat. Dean moans before he allows it to enter him further, where he's let nobody else be before, nobody but Sam, and Sam moans right back at the clutch around his glans, the grip of Dean's throat on each slide out.

If he wasn't this drunk, he would be bothered by the drool on his lips, his chin, Sam's sofa; would be embarrassed by the dirty sounds Sam fucks from his throat. But it's only them and he's safe, drunk and floating and safe, held so good by this one hand, no, two now, cold press of glass against the side of his head. Sam is fucking him now and Dean can't breathe while he feels a drop of precome running down his own balls.

Sam pulls out after another few powerful thrusts and Dean gasps for air, coughs some of the spit from his throat, blinks through tears, blindly chases the slippery-hot cock rubbing across his lips, his cheeks.

"You look beautiful when you cry, you know that?"

"Ugh, fuck you."

Back in his mouth, right across his tongue, down to the base, hand pressing him nose-first into Sam's pubic bone. While he convulses, fights against his instinct to pull off, Sam shushes him along with, "One dirty mouth you've got there, Smith."

Dean is being yanked off by his hair, gulps for air, coughs hard enough to almost triggering his gag reflex. A thumb skids around his mouth and chin, collects all escaped spit and feeds it back to him, presses down on his tongue. Dean closes his lips and sucks.

"Jesus fucking Christ."

A mighty hand pushes against his chest, signs him to lie down on his back, so he does. Sam's weight lands on him while he is busy rubbing the tears from his eyes, gets his hands licked first and his mouth later as soon as he drops them next to his head. Sam is straddling him, enormous hands cradling his face while his tongue follows the same path as his cock only seconds ago. Teeth get a hold of his tongue and bite down almost too hard, softer as soon as he whimpers. Sam switches to Dean's bottom lip after a while, chews it dangerously close to splitting, groans, kisses Dean again. Dean lets him. Hands go from face to wrists. They are being pressed into the cushions to draw Dean's attention to them, and it's close to too much when those thumbs press the cufflinks into Dean's flesh.

Sam bites his lip again. Dean feels himself shuddering, melting, grinding his hips in search of some ( _any_ ) friction, but there is nothing but the mocking drag of Sam's spit slick cock over his stomach.

Sam's thumbs work in circles. "Please."

Sam doesn't stop. "Yes?"

"Touch me, please."

"Hm?"

"M-my, my dick, come on... Don't leave me hangin' here...!" The thumbs in his wrists press lightning behind Dean's eyelids.

"Didn't you come earlier, Smith?" Sam's voice is innocent, so light, too light.

"Dude, I...!" Dean writhes in frustration, uncomfortably well aware of the fact how he is no match for this guy probably double his weight. "Please, come on. Again. I-I want to come _again_."

Sam's breath ghosts down Dean's chin as he hears, "Not yet," and Dean yelps at the first and moreover brutal bite to his stretched neck. The thumbs finally ease up with how Sam's hands slide up into Dean's and lace their fingers together, but the bites keep coming, tiny, mean assaults that Sam delivers quick or open mouthed, probably leaving marks behind and oh God, Dean can't tell if it's below usual collar height or _not_.

"P-please- Ouh, ah, S-sa-"

His neck is let go in favor of his chest, shoulder, chest again, one mean tugging from soft beginning of armpit down to a soon aching nipple with how Sam is working it, and maybe Dean is shouting now. Dizzy and on fire and ready to burst and it's too hard, too much, but his mouth just won't tell Sam to stop, doesn't dare to command this mouth off of his skin. When it does so itself, Dean sobs in relief.

"Hands behind your head."

Dean obeys immediately.

Sam's cock is being guided against Dean's skin with enough pressure for it to hurt Sam, shouldn't it?, but it skids up and down his stomach, into his navel, up. Dean watches with sick fascination how his red-bitten nipple disappears into the slit of Sam's dick.

"Are you gonna let me come all over you, Dean?"

A few weeks ago, the thought would have made him reel backwards and out of the door. Now, here, considering how far he is sold to all of this, this man on top of him, it doesn't sound like too much trouble anymore. So Dean nods, aware of how embarrassment pours a deeper red down from cheeks to chest.

He watches the small moment of pure adoration ghosting over Sam's features. It contorts into a downright filthy smirk. "Oh yeah. Gonna mess you up so pretty." Dean hears the telltale smacking sound of skin on skin getting faster. He presses his lips shut and suddenly realizes how open his nostrils are. "Close your eyes, Dean."

Dean squeezes them shut in time with the early, first drop.

The first spurt hits him on the chin and he flinches, feels the others reach from throat down his breastbone, up to the middle of his stomach where Sam is crouching over him, breathing hard and groaning through his obvious pleasure.

Dean dares to peel his eyes open when most of the event is done with, peeks down his belly where Sam's dick is still drooling thick white over his skin. A small breath escapes him, careful not to cause too much movement which would spread the mess even further. Sam's hair hangs in front of his face like a curtain when Dean looks up to search for these eyes, turns him unreadable.

Sam drags his cock through the slowly cooling mess, maybe lingering in the warmth, and Dean reminds himself to keep his hands put where Sam told him to keep them. When the reach is too limited for his likings, Sam assigns the task to the fingers of his right hand. Dean lets him massage his come into his skin, waiting for eye contact, another word. Anything, really.

"Mine." A smile appears. "... Can't believe you're _mine_."

Dean's chest expands from the inside. Maybe Sam can feel it with his hand right above his heart.

They kiss almost innocently until Sam suggests switching positions. So Dean gets on all fours over Sam, feeling slightly too drunk for having no support for the incredible weight of his head. It gets better with Sam's beautiful eyes, wide and awake and not missing a single movements of Dean's face as he wraps his hand around his dick, finally, freaking fucking _finally_. Dean groans with gratitude and frustration - he worries out loud that he doesn't think that he can get off like this. Sam just smiles and tells him to relax, so Dean does. Turns out that yeah, he _can_. Sam wrings him dry and kisses where he had bitten before, makes Dean stutter for "no more", answers with "just a _little_ more" until Dean almost throws himself off of the couch in order to escape that damn hand. He whimpers at the sight of Sam's fingers drifting through the puddle he left, drawing it up to his own chest, over his ribs, down into his pubes. Helpless in his exhaustion, Dean complains about his neck. Sam soothes him with kisses and showers both of them down with an exaggerated yet appreciated amount of soap.

Present Dean decides that future Dean will have to worry about the bowtie and the bite marks and that him, present Dean, deserves tugging himself tight around Sam's back, deserves nuzzling soft hair and deserves adoring kisses to his forearms until he falls asleep.

If tonight is an indicator for this oh-so young year, Dean is definitely not too pessimistic about future Dean.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The soundtrack for 50 is up! I added the link to the fic summary. Check it out and enjoy.

It turns out that in fact every single one of his collars _does_ reach high enough to hide what is too purple for anyone's eyes. Dean traces their way down his neck in front of mirrors when he's by himself and curious enough. They stop hurting after two or three days. When Sam laughs at him for showing up to the gym in a turtleneck shirt, Dean punishes him with squinting glares and silence. Excuses are being kissed into the back of his neck in the showers and Sam promises he'll be more thoughtful next time, will only place his teeth where Dean isn't naked for anyone but Sam and himself. Dean almost faints in the sauna with the chewsuck-pressure of Sam's jaw on his inner thigh.

"Let's not... Not here."

Wild eyes from between his legs. "Don't worry. Nobody but us ever comes here, remember?"

"But what if... I mean, there always could be..."

"Dean."

One of those wide, wide palms slides up from thigh to hip, stomach, side; thumb skidding over his skin. Dean's chest heaves even without all this. Sam is what makes him this way.

"Trust me," Sam hums.

Dean closes his eyes. 

~ 

"Would you like to come upstairs?"

Dean feels positively stupid with those two bad beers and the Cowboy's victory bouncing in his neurons. His nose is running and his hair is being whipped around by the current snowstorm even though he only just climbed out of Sam's limousine. But maybe that's it, isn't it? The cold, the disgusting weather, the thought of being alone this evening - it is unbearable.

Sam stares up at him through the rolled down window in obvious surprise and ends up answering his, "Yeah, sure," under his nods.

Dean shoves his hands deeper into his coat's pockets. In his opinion, Sam can't send John and the car away fast enough.

"You're gonna catch a cold," worries Sam somewhere behind him while Dean unlocks the door and sneezes hard enough to sway with it. "Am _not_ ," he sniffs while stepping inside. If he said he hadn't planned to invite Sam today in particular as in "absolutely _not_ particular at all", that would probably be a lie. The thorough tidying had taken place only two days ago and had been necessary anyway, so this here could and will pass as a coincidence. Dean dwells in the still lingering scent of citrus cleanser while he takes off his coat and scarf.

He offers another beer because he bought some in advance. There actually are ingredients for lasagna in the fridge next to said beer, too, but Dean will see how the evening develops before offering this piece of information to Sam. A casual drop, something like, "Oh, in case you're hungry, we can try this recipe I totally didn't spend three hours of research on." Dean uncaps two beers and heads back to where Sam patiently waits for him on the couch. Beer is handed over and Dean remains standing, too nervous to sit down. The couch looks too small with Sam on it anyway.

A strange silence settles over them under the lonely humming of the fridge, the occasional sip from a bottle. Dean puts his hand on his hip and blinks too often. No conversation seems to come to mind. He wonders why. Sam doesn't move, as if he was waiting for something. Did Dean forget about something? Is he too sweaty? Does he smell? Oh God.

Sam's voice cuts through Dean's panic like a butter knife. "Mind if I have a look around?"

Dean almost chokes on his too hasty inhale. He frowns, laughs nervously. "G-go ahead; sure? Why would you even ask that?"

Sam gets to his feet with a small smile. "Maybe because last time I didn't, I wasn't invited over for the next five months."

"... Oh," says Dean.

His throat ties up.

Sam's long legs could take him across rooms rather fast, but he is taking his time. Dean feels not only naked but miserable, stuck up his own ass, fuck, he didn't even _think_ about it like that. They had been at Sam's place countless times. Sam had opened up to him so trustfully. Sam is always nice, always cautious with Dean - and this is how he repaid him?

"I'm sorry," Dean mumbles, frozen in place next to the sofa while Sam has an extensive look at the strange modern art print Dean has been hauling along for what feels like half a lifetime. He doesn't even particularly like it but Sam has no idea about that and treats it with utmost respect just like he does with everything Dean is sharing with him.

Soft eyes turn over to him. Dean feels small, stupid. Negatively stupid this time. "Don't beat yourself up about it, pet."

Dean exhales heavily through his nose, shrinking some more.

"I didn't know you enough back then. Today, I feel silly for being so impolite."

"You weren't," Dean corrects.

With Sam in the room, all space seems to be taken up by him, his broad shoulders, his long feet, tall back. Melting snow is still stuck in Sam's hair. "I was," he says, "and I try not to repeat my mistakes. Don't worry."

"Sam." It feels like calling for his mother, like begging for forgiveness, for a hug. Dean still hasn't moved. He holds on to his beer. "I'm- I... I know I'm... I'm complicated..."

"It's okay," Sam says.

"No, I'm- It really bothers me as well, you know? And I feel like a complete _ass_ right now. You are really looking out for me literally all the time, and I am always messing everything up an' I, I don't even know if you even _like_ lasagna, and, or, this- this _beer_ , is it even- do you _like_ this beer? 'Cause I don't have one fucking clue an'..."

As his voice trails off by itself, Dean notices that he is staring at the couch and that he spilled some of his beer on the floor, maybe while gesturing too extensively. His stomach drops some more along with what seems to be his body temperature. He presses his mouth shut, pants through his nose.

"Hey."

A warm arm from where he doesn't see it coming. He lets Sam draw him against his chest but doesn't allow himself to bury his face where he knows it would fit. The bottle in his hand is shaking until Sam peels it from his fingers, puts it aside on the coffee table.

"Hey. It's okay. Sit down, okay? Everything is fine."

Sam guides him down to the sofa and keeps both of Dean's hands in one of his own, kneels down between Dean's legs. Dean's blood rushes in his ears, breath coming thin, too thin. He's fighting hard against panic, but it tears and rips at him like it always has. Not even the soft squeeze of Sam's hand can do something about that.

"It's fine. Dean. Here, look at me."

He really, really doesn't want to.

Another hand on top of his ones. "Hey. Please."

Dean winces. With gritting teeth, he finally turns his head. To hear this man pleading for something is making Dean's heart ache.

Sam looks so holy, so sacred, forgiving and soft and safe. "Dean," Sam hums again. Quietly. Soft.

Dean takes a deep, shuddering breath.

"Good. Very good. Keep going."

He nods, does it again. Slowly and with the repetitions, he feels himself calming down.

Sam must be kneeling in the beer Dean had spilled. What a joke. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be _nice_ and _uncomplicated_ and _perfect_. It somehow never seems to go that way for Dean.

"I want you to know that absolutely nothing you do is bothering me. Or unnerving me. Or giving me the slightest feeling of not wanting to spend time with you. ... Do you believe me?"

Dean nods.

No smile. "Be honest with me, Dean."

A tick of jaw. Dean mouths his "no".

"We all have our more or less incredible flaws we don't want others to know about. It's okay to have them. They don't make you any less of a great person. Which you are, by the way. Great. Amazing."

"Stop it," Dean groans.

"No." Still no smile. Sam's right hand joins his left in the hold around Dean's. "I didn't even get _started_ about how wonderful you are, Dean. I wish I could make you understand. You could do pretty much every terrible thing to me and I would still be right here, right at your feet, because no matter what you think makes you any less worthy of me - well, frankly, I couldn't care less."

Cold has been replaced by what must be a furnace inside Dean's stomach. Sam's body in between his legs beams with a soft, invisible light. Dean can feel it transitioning through the tips of Sam's fingers, right into Dean's now sweaty hands. Sam's hands are never sweaty.

Dean blinks down at his saint with pure devotion.

"I love how you start to stutter when something hits you unprepared," Sam breathes.

Sam's hands around Dean's open as if they were holding a small bird. A kiss ghosts over Dean's knuckles.

"I love the blood vessel on your forehead that pops out when you hold your breath."

Another. Sam remains bent over Dean's hand while he continues almost in a whisper.

"I love the wrinkles on your forehead when you frown. I love the way you comb your fingers through my hair, and I love how you only do it right after you've seen me wash it. I love the scent of your sweat."

Dean could lean forward and cover Sam's back now, could hug this man, his lover, and he could get lost in the soothing smell of Sam's freshly ironed shirt. It would be nice and it would be blissful - but it would be too much for Dean right now.

He feels unfit for this kind of worship, for the certainty in Sam's quiet whispers.

Sam carefully puts his head into Dean's lap, stretches his arms to reach around Dean's small of the back.

Dean's hands have nowhere to go but on top of this head, this warm, loveable thing. Aside from tucking Sam's hair out of his face and behind his ear, Dean indeed doesn't touch it too much. He never noticed that, but it really feels a lot like him.

"There is not one piece of you that is despicable," Dean hears. He traces the sharp edge of Sam's sideburn. "Not a single atom in your entire being."

When nothing comes for a while, Dean mutters, "Are you done?"

"Hm," sighs Sam.

"I get it now, okay?"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Sam is growing stubble. This morning is so far away yet again. "You are some kind of alien from the 'definitely not normal human being' planet. My long lost godfather or something."

"Godfather?" Sam repeats.

"They don't take it too conventional with the family bonding up there."

Dean can feel Sam's smile against his thigh.

He tries one of his own. "Thank you. Honestly."

"For what?"

"For putting up with me."

A soft squeeze to Dean's abdomen. "What you call 'putting up' I would call 'having the time of my life', but hey, vocabularies differ, I guess."

Dean wonders if Sam also loves the crow's feet in the corners of Dean's eyes when he smiles. _Thank you_ , he repeats inside of his head.

"On another note... Did I hear 'lasagna' earlier? Is there lasagna?"

Dean snorts a relieved laugh. "Possibly so. I thought for dinner, maybe. If you'd like to stay until then."

"I'll stay with you forever if that means you'll cook for me." Sam turns his head to let his mouth press over where Dean's flaccid cock rests underneath slacks and underwear. A warm, wide kiss.

Oh. "... Are you hungry yet?"

Another press. Dean flushes under the obvious sound of Sam inhaling his scent. "Maybe not just yet," Sam muses.

Thank God.

They finish their beer once they finished each other off. The TV is blaring about something unimportant and Dean's fingers trace the beer-sticky spot on Sam's knee. He really doesn't feel like buttoning his shirt back closed; not with Sam's fingertips tickling over the unusually bare spots of his chest. Every now and then, Sam points at something in the room and asks what it is, where and when Dean got it, what he likes about it. Dean answers with his temple resting against Sam's. Nostalgia settles in over them like a dusty blanket, or maybe it's just for Dean who recollects minor detail after detail. Sam listens like a child, eager and willing to learn. About Dean. About Dean's life. Dean never would have thought he would end up on his couch, holding hands with a man while talking about the sturdy uplighter he has had since college. Maybe if he would have, it wouldn't have struck him as something this delightful.

Sam excuses himself to the restroom and Dean starts setting up dinner. Dean's response to Sam's, "You sure have a lot of beauty creams in there, pal," consists of devolving the peeling and cutting of both onions and garlic to him. But he can laugh it off, as crazy as that sounds to himself. It doesn't even upset him that much at all to know Sam has been going through his stuff. Hell, he can even come to terms with delaying the floor wiping until after Sam has left. Sam knows him. Sam understands him. And, yeah, believe it or not - Sam isn't repelled by Dean's neurotic behavior. At all.

Love. He said he _loved_ these things about Dean. All those things Dean wished he could carve out. And Sam _loves_ them.

It's too risky to get stuck on nutrient lists in Sam's company, so Dean has not a single clue about the calorie density of that forkful Sam is feeding him across the table. He _does_ know it tastes brilliant though; spicy and like green bell pepper because Sam likes both things (just like Dean does). They end up finishing the entire thing. Even though Dean had almost half of it, he fails to find a reason to feel bad.

"Thanks for inviting me up here," Sam tells him between kisses. No "but I don't _want_ to leave yet", no "but wouldn't it be so much nicer if I stayed the night?". No. Sam never grouches - maybe except for the blowjob issue... which turned out to be a good change for Dean as well - and maybe, this is something Dean loves about Sam.

Dean fastens up Sam's coat, pulls that scarf tighter under some last, longing kisses. The smacks of their lips make Dean regret his decision for a short while before he reassures himself that it's for the best. If Sam stayed tonight, they wouldn't fall asleep until morning. CS will be waiting for them said morning.

"You're welcome."

"And thanks for dinner," Sam adds with another kiss.

"Are you done yet?"

Another kiss, deeper. A growl. "And thanks for sucking me off like I was paying for it."

"Leave already," Dean laughs.

He can't say that he isn't flattered by Sam's knowing smirk, the lick over lips, by eyes that won't let go of Dean's face until they really, ultimately have to. Out of the door, a warm "good night" over a shoulder.

"See you tomorrow," Dean replies into the corridor. Sam waves at him before the door closes between them.

Dean listens to Sam's steps to the elevator, hears it coming, him entering, doors closing. Silence. Dean keeps his ear pressed against the door for another moment, simply in order not to lose the sound of Sam in his home just yet. 

~ 

Mr. Smith peers rather irritated over the rims of his glasses.

Mr. Wesson keeps on smiling at him while he pulls the door closed behind himself.

"Uhm," Mr. Smith starts, raising his hand to take off his glasses.

"It's okay," Mr. Wesson tells him with his fingers spread wide in front of his chest, palms facing Mr. Smith, as in a gesture of surrender. "Two minutes. That's all I'm asking for."

"You didn't- The, the _door_ , you-!" Mr. Smith's frown deepens as he struggles to pull his glasses off, as he folds and tosses them away carelessly. He pushes his chair farther away from the desk whose edge Mr. Wesson is taking a seat on. Dean is hissing now. "Why'd you close the door?! The fuck, man?!"

"I just wanted to _talk_ ," Mr. Wesson laughs under a frown. "Is that illegal now?"

Dean watches Mr. Wesson's fingers picking one of Mr. Smith's pens. They inspect it playfully. "It's- You know exactly what this is, so, so-! Don't close the freaking door, alright!? Imagine how that looks like to the others! Nobody here closes their freaking door for a freaking chat!"

"You honestly think we'll get busted because of a _closed door_?"

"Don't say it out loud! Jesus Christ!" Mr. Smith is bolting from his seat now, sweat already collecting along his hairline.

Mr. Wesson's grip on Mr. Smith's arm is as sudden as it is powerful, almost knocking him off his feet.

Dean stares down at it, at Mr. Wesson.

"Dean, relax," he hears.

He feels his chest heaving under his suddenly too tight button-down.

"Nothing is gonna happen, so sit down. _Please_." The grip softens some.

It's enough for Dean to wrench himself free. He glares at Sam, the door, his arm. He rubs it with his free hand and slowly retreats to his chair.

"Thank you," Sam sighs.

Dean frowns on the edge of his seat.

"So." Mr. Wesson raises the pen to his eyes, squints at it. "Your birthday. Next Wednesday. Any plans yet?"

"No," Dean rumbles.

Eyes switch to him. "Would you like me to think of something? Is there anything you'd like to do that day?"

He tries to shrug but doesn't come far with shoulders this tensed. "Not really. I don't know. Whatever, I guess."

A snort, discharge of pen. "How passionate."

Dean grits his teeth and stares at Mr. Wesson's tiepin.

Strange, waiting silence. Dean imagines hearing a clock ticking somewhere. Two minutes. Has it been two minutes yet? How many minutes behind a closed door are unsuspicious?

"Okay," Sam sighs, gets to his feet. Dean almost trembles with relief. Sam scratches behind his ear, stuffs his hands into his pants pockets. "I'll think of something then, I guess."

"Great." Dean doesn't raise his eyes.

"Talk to you later."

"Okay, sir."

It slips from him in stupid habitude but feels terribly misplaced in this context. It _should_ be Mr. Wesson he is talking to here. "Sam" has no right to walk CS' ground, especially not CS' ground in Mr. Smith's personal office.

Dean doesn't like this. Not a bit.

He hears a chuckle but notices the hand reaching for his cheek early enough to recoil.

"Don't- don't _touch_ me!"

Now he's staring at the neatly carpeted floor. He feels sick.

Sam is not supposed to _be_ here.

"... Sorry."

"Just _go_!"

Dean traces Mr. Wesson's steps towards the door and silently rejoices in the corridor's busy soundtrack. The door is left ajar, just how it's supposed to be.

They've got this. Dean has to repeat it to himself a few times.

They've got this. 

~ 

Sam had apologized. Maybe a bit too casually... but Dean is not looking for a fight. Everything has worked out so well so far. Slip-ups do happen. Maybe Dean's reaction _had_ been exaggerated; Sam was right. If someone would have walked into his office, what would they have found? Two colleagues, talking. About a private issue, yes, but planning a birthday definitely is not some lover-exclusive activity.

So Dean agreed to sauna with Sam. There is no grudge to hold and he wants to make that known.

So when Sam begins with, "Funny though. That you think I wouldn't calculate every risk before doing anything of that sort," and sighs a little too loud while brushing his hair back over his head, Dean sinks in on himself some more.

"That's not the point," he mutters.

A disparaging snort. "No. _Absolutely_ not."

"Seriously. There's a lot at stake here. In the end it's better to make that extra effort in order not to fuck it all up with something stupid. Don't you agree with me here?"

Those eyes are unmoved. Dean doesn't like this particular smile. "So you don't trust me."

Dean lets his head loll and his eyes roll. Why did Sam have to pick this up again? "That's not it."

"So you _do_ trust me?"

Another sigh. Smaller. "Of course I trust you."

"Then what is your problem, Dean?"

This is getting tiresome. Dean exhales unnerved through his nose. Sam is acting like an ape with his chest pushed out, smirking and frowning as if Dean said something incredibly stupid - which he didn't. Thank God they are at least sitting in opposite corners of the sauna.

"I told you, I have everything under control. I don't slip up, I don't fuck up, I won't get us busted. Whatever I do, it's one hundred percent bulletproof, okay?"

He just wants to get this over with already, so Dean mutters, "Yeah, okay."

Sam is leaning forward now, elbows on his knees. "Don't 'okay' me, Dean; do you _understand_ what I just said?"

"I am not deaf, alright?" He wants to leave. "Yeah, I did, yeah, I'll let you do your thing! Are you happy now? God." He runs his hand over the top of his head. "You are such a _child_ sometimes!"

And at that, Sam gets up, walks straight past Dean and slams the door shut behind himself.

Yeah. So much for proving Dean's point.

Now that Sam is fuming somewhere else, Dean takes the opportunity to do what he actually came here for - relaxing. Two hours of sauna, showers and resting in between. Perfect. He feels just as newborn as he feels ready to drop right into his bed. Sam is nowhere to be seen when Dean leaves the gym. Nothing unexpected. If Sam has everything so outstandingly "under control", well, then he is welcome to prove that now by containing his temper.

Nothing comes the next day. Or the day after that. Or over the entire weekend. From another perspective, Dean guesses it must look incredibly sad that he only just realizes that five days have passed. He is staring at his phone that is blinking with voice mail which is not from Sam. His thirty-seventh birthday is two hours away, he is tired like a dog and Sam and him haven't spoken for five consecutive days. The only reasonable reaction to these things is obvious: lying down and pretending to be unconscious.

What a strange thing to look at your boss, not only seeing but really looking, noticing, recognizing. Wesson is ice-cold, smug, agile. Dangerous. He sports fake dimples when they greet each other in the meeting room and Mr. Smith smiles back. Dean's heart is a puddle in some curb, but Mr. Smith can't take care of Dean right now, just like Sam can't strip off Wesson and punch Dean's face or whatever it is he'd prefer as punishment. Dean wonders if Sam is even angrier now that no apology has been delivered to him on a silver plate. If Sam thinks Dean ignored him on purpose? Dean doesn't believe he did. Mr. Smith had always been nice on the corridor, in meetings; short but effective just like Mr. Wesson. Dean had not wanted to punish Sam for anything. What a strange thing, Dean muses while Mr. Smith is shaking hands and looking all flustered over the cake they baked for him (oh God please, _no_ ), to suddenly realize that you just spent the first solitary days in months. Entire _months_.

Maybe that is his punishment, finally. Maybe, if you're so used to being by yourself all the time, you end up getting too used to it. You end up creating your own circle around yourself where nobody can touch you. And once there is someone you want to let in, shit like this happens. You fall back into old patterns and suddenly five days are gone without a word, maybe with a war, Dean has no freaking idea because _he did not even fucking pay attention_.

He is the worst.

Back in his office and alone for what feels like the first time all day, one letter stands out from where it rests on top of the mountains of paper like a glowing red neon sign. Not literally, of course, but there are premonitions sometimes. Dean feels the need to brace himself before picking up the piece of paper.

 _Dear Mr. Smith_ , it reads. _We would like to inform you that your last minute application for leave - from January twenty-fifth to January twenty-eighth - has been accepted. Courtman and Styles wishes you a restorative vacation and is looking forward to your return. Best regards, Human Resources_.

Dean re-reads it. He actually re-reads it _twice_ before picking up his headset very, very hesitantly.

The connection is almost immediate. "Wesson."

"There is, uh, there is- I think there-"

"Sorry, who is this?"

A puzzled silence. "Smith. Director of... Marketing and. And Sales. Please, uh, please excuse my tone, sir, I didn't mean to-"

"No problem. I just didn't quite recognize you at first," Mr. Wesson chimes. "You were kind of stuttering."

Dean is sweating.

"So - what can I do for you, Smith?"

"I have a... letter here in front of me." Dean scans it over once more as he speaks, afraid that he might have mistaken something for something. But no. "It says my application for leave has passed. I... I never handed in anything like that." A smile. Maybe it can be heard. _Must_ be heard. "There must have been a mistake."

"How odd. I will check it right away."

"Thank you, sir." Dean's eyes are fixed on the upper edge of the letter. He can hear typing on the other end of the line.

"Hm. Well, I have everything right here, Smith. Our system says it's all booked."

"No," Dean insists, on the edge of his chair now. "This can't be- I, I'm sure I did not-"

" _Smith_."

The world is turning a little slower with the slamming pressure of Sam's foot on the breaks.

"Everything is _fine_ , Smith."

Sweat. So much sweat. Dean might be swimming in it right now. His eyes feel wet as well.

Wesson speaks with Wesson's words but with a borrowed voice. "You worked very hard these past weeks, didn't you. Maybe your past self was looking out for you when you didn't pay attention? Hell, a surprise vacation, who wouldn't want that? I sure know I would." The voice bursts into Wesson's, almost bellows. So official. So carefree. "It's your birthday too, isn't it? Now that's what I call a present, Smith."

And Dean is a hundred percent certain now that, yeah, smiles _can_ be heard over the phone.

"Any special plans, if I may ask?"

The words are so familiar. Dean swallows. "I'm not... No, I. I don't think so. Not really."

"Ah," Wesson muses, "I'm sure you'll find a way to pass the time. Get some rest, for all of us. You've certainly earned it."

"Thank you, sir."

"No problem. Was there anything else?"

He shakes his head out of reflex. "No. That's all. Thanks for your help, sir."

"You're welcome. Have a nice vacation, Mr. Smith. See you again on Monday."

The line disconnects.

Dean stares at CS' logo for another long while before finding the motivation to move again. He runs both hands over his face and struggles to get hold of a tissue to wipe them dry on afterwards. Thoughts are running past him as blurred shadows. There it is again. This sensation of getting the ground ripped away under his feet. He forgot how he handled it the last time, so he resigns to doing nothing - thinking nothing - feeling nothing.

He gathers his things and bids Rhonda farewell. She isn't as surprised as Dean thought she would be and simply shrugs her shoulders at the question about whether she knew about all that. "Sure. You put a note into my planner last week. It was signed, too." If she still has said note somewhere? No, she replies. She can get him a copy of the application though if he wanted that. No, he replies, and wishes her a good week. "It's not like the place is gonna collapse without you, sir," Rhonda smirks.

Instead of the street, Dean watches the back of the driver's seat. It takes fifteen minutes to get home since rush hour is not due yet. Fifteen minutes and Dean still is none the wiser. Stepping into his apartment, he notices a card on the floor and now underneath his shoe. It must have been slipped underneath the door. He would wonder if he was still able to at this point.

Dean doesn't have to see the handwriting - he simply _knows_. He picks up the card, turns it to read.

_Everything has been arranged. John will pick you up tomorrow at eight AM; please don't let him wait. Everything is on me, so spoil yourself. I mean it. We will talk about everything once you're back. Don't think of me, of work, of anything. Enjoy yourself. Happy birthday._

He should be relieved now, right? Relieved about how Sam still seems to care enough about him to prepare something for his birthday (and something big, too, it seems), about how Sam wants to talk. Sounds like a peace offering, right? Right.

Except that it all feels wrong. Too clean, too perfect. It feels like Wesson, not like Sam. Dean has to sit down.

With his elbows on his knees, he watches the card turn in between his fingers. Just an hour ago, the world had still been in order - Sam hadn't booked Dean's leave behind his back, hadn't casted him away into some wellness resort or whatever it would be he'd turn up in. Why would Sam do something like that? He had falsified Dean's signature, must have. That's fraud. Technically, Sam committed a crime.

It's bizarre to formulate these facts. It feels as if Dean doesn't know Sam at all - maybe never knew in the first place. Would he have thought of Sam being capable of pulling such a stunt? ... Maybe. If he's honest: yeah, maybe he _would_ have. But now it _has_ happened, for real, and that's something entirely different altogether. Somehow. It's weird. Dean feels like lying down.

A shower, whiskey, TV. Brain-dead, empty. Dean tries not to think of anything and it works rather well. Night hugs the city too early for his likings. It's always harder in the dark.

He wants to call Sam. He wants to hear Sam's voice, wants to ask what the fuck is going on, what Sam thought he was doing when he executed this plan of his. He wants to be _angry_. He wants to tell Sam to come over and scream into his face that it's not okay to do shit like that behind his back, that what Sam did was illegal and disrespectful and completely unacceptable. He wants to ball his fists and tell Sam that this was not what he imagined this... thing "thing" of theirs to be like. Dean wants to say that they are both too old for reckless stunts like that.

The booze makes him both sleepy and miserable. Dean curls in on himself in his bed, alone, well aware that he didn't turn off the alarm for next morning's otherwise work-busy day. He figures he will hear it across the room where he left it in a purely precautious measure.

Sam probably wouldn't pick up anyway.


	6. Chapter 6

John says that he's sorry, Mr. Smith, but he can't tell him anything. Dean nods more to himself than anyone else and molds himself deeper into the backseat. They go for the airport. Two hours and a short cab ride later, his suitcase is being brought up to a fancy reception desk. The concierge has a lovely smile. She finds Dean's reservation almost immediately. "You're scheduled for our relaxation package at one PM, sir," Dean is informed. "Since you've booked full pension, you might want to have a light lunch prior to that? The chef's recommendation for today would be white seabass." He declines for now. To his question whether there are more reservations for him, her smile widens even further (if that's even possible). She huffs a little laugh. "I could, uh, print it out for you if you'd like."

It's quite a list. Sam thought of every little thing - or well, of every little thing he thinks Dean might enjoy. He definitely wasn't picky. There is something for almost every hour of the day, ranging from mud facials to tai chi classes to aroma therapy. Dean's head is buzzing. He can only imagine how much this three day stay is going to cost. The fact that Sam is more than a little wealthy doesn't console Dean too much. If this generous gifting continues, the guy will be broke in no time.

Dean has a feeling he should feel bad about all this. You don't accept a giant present like this after a fight, after ignoring the person who gifted you, after calling them a child. Children don't have black credit cards and an idea of how much Dean's back muscles needed that two hour Thai massage. Dean doesn't know too much about children, but this he knows. So he should feel bad. Right? Well, unfortunately it's pretty difficult to feel bad when the entire hotel staff seems to be on a holy mission to make him feel like he just ascended right into Heaven.

After several involuntary naps during the daytime, falling asleep is a little bit of an issue. Dean makes himself comfortable with what room service provided him with - apparently, Sam had informed them about the whiskey habit -, sprawling on a gigantic, warm waterbed, staring up into the night sky that unblushingly shows itself through the ceiling window. The TV is running and some generic sport event is taking place somewhere. As nice as all of this is... it's not the same without Sam. Actually, it all reminds Dean way too much of Sam.

He wonders if this was Sam's plan all along - to show Dean that hey, guess what: all those things you really like to do? They're only that good because we do them _together_. "He's not that much of an asshole," Dean mumbles to the bottle. He feels talkative. If Sam is still up two states over?

Dean heads for the bar. He doesn't know what exactly it is he's looking for and isn't enlightened over the two hours he occupies his spot among a handful of other guests. Watching the ice cubes in his drink dissolve, he feels as lonely as he hasn't felt in ages. Months. Years, maybe. Yeah. A very long time.

It's not fair that Sam pulled him out of his contented state of being alone. Everything was going so well. Dean was doing good - the new job, the new city, the new place... It was all supposed to work out. It was looking so good for Dean, finally. A good place. He had been at a good place. It hadn't been easy to come to that point.

And now he's here - all by himself in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by serene employees with amazing hands and low voices, by whale songs and Ayurvedic food. If Dean didn't know any better he could be twenty-six now, straight out of college and so lost he almost can't tell his own two feet apart.

There is missing and then there is _missing_.

Dean gives his glass a long stare before knocking back its last content. 

~ 

He mentions that the breakfast is really... enormous. The waiter blinks a little irritated, keeps on smiling. "But this is exactly how you wished to have it arranged. I got the orders straight from the reception desk, Mr. Smith." Dean exhales through his nose and takes his time going through all the food he can possibly manage to get down. It ends up being a rough third of the amount Sam estimated to be reasonable. The waiter doesn't flinch at the bulk of leftovers but instead smiles bright at Dean's explanation that someone arranged all of this for him as a birthday present and that he's sorry that he can't exactly live up to the benefactor's expectations. "Someone really wants to spoil you, sir," the theory comes. In a universe where he was confident about himself, Dean's cheeks would flush a delicate pink. In reality, he regrets having that porridge.

Between hot stone massage and acupuncture, Dean feels restless. Between sauna and pressure point massage, he feels like pretty much nothing but a heap of mushy tissue. It all evens out in the evening once more, alone with the minibar (once more). Dean glares at his phone on the other side of the bed.

If Sam even picked up, Dean would tell him how sorry he is for how everything went down. That Dean didn't mean to ignore Sam, that it hadn't been his intention at all to punish Sam with ignorance. Dean would describe how much of a wonderful time he is having at this resort and that he doesn't know where to begin with his gratitude. He wants to tell Sam how generous he is, how utterly and completely sincere he is looking out for Dean. But most of all, Dean wants to sob how deeply he misses Sam's company, their bad jokes, the silent conformance between the two of them. If Sam even picked up.

Dean groans and flails a few times - and uncaps another miniature bottle before actually putting his hands on his phone. He scowls at it, hard, and he realizes he might be a little too drunk for a responsible activity like making a phone call. "Well, fuck it," he decides out loud.

He is highly aware of how hard his heart is pulsing right now, presses the phone closer to his ear. "Hey" he thinks. He's gonna start with "hey".

The call is rejected.

Dean's mouth opens over the silence, closes again. The phone is still squished against his ear, a little cold from being neglected for so long while Dean's entire self is whiskey-hot. He slowly holds it in front of his face to help himself settling with the fact of what happened just now.

Just in that moment, a new message makes the display flash.

Wesson: _No calls for now. Texting only._

Dean's mouth opens again, but now he frowns along with it. "Excuse me?" he says out loud. Nobody answers.

You: _But I wanna talk._

Wesson replies immediately: _Send voice messages then._

You: _Sure that's okay? Where are you rn?_

Wesson: _@home_. _I just don't feel like talking._

Dean stares at that last text. His chest draws tight and after all these massages, he can actually feel it happening. He taps the tiny microphone button on the right bottom corner. He hits it on the third try. "They'll think I'll be talkin' to myself," he mutters.

Wesson: _Nobody's forcing you, you know._

Deeper scowl. Tap of thumb. "I know."

Wesson: _Drunk?_

Tap. "... Maybe."

No reply.

"Oh come on, as if you aren't. I know you. And it wasn't me who ordered all these, these perfume bottle sized things to my room, y'know? It's all _your_ fault."

No reply.

Softer tap. "... They're all so fucking good, Sam. Imma turn into an alcoholic if this goes on." Release. Contemplating. Another tap. "Please tell me they're gonna refill it tomorrow. They gotta. Right?"

More nothing.

Dean sighs, rubs his eyes with the heel of his thumb, has another draught of his drink. Another tap. "They're all really delicious. Thank you, Sammy."

He feels his muscles going lax at the "is writing..." under Sam's displayed name. Wesson: _You're welcome._

Dean shimmies deeper into the pillows. "The entire place is... it's just... wow. Man, I don't even know anymore. It's pretty fucking amazing. I don't know where to start."

Wesson: _Did you like the appointments I picked out?_

Dean nods wildly while holding the phone to his mouth. "Yes. Yes. God, Sammy, the- the things they did to my feet, it's- that was a religious experience. I'm gonna cry when I have to leave."

Wesson: _I'm glad to hear that._

"Thank you so much," he breathes. "Seriously. Honestly. I don't know what to say. This is simply amazing. I don't... I don't know what to say, really."

No reply. Dean wonders if Sam is holding his phone right now, holds it in his ridiculously long fingers and smiles at it, at Dean's embarrassing drunkenness. He imagines Sam does.

Finally, he dares to say, "I miss you."

It's not too thought through. Good whiskey does things to good men, and Dean is one weak and tired and lonely man. His throat feels tight all of a sudden, his eyes wetter, the room more spacious, colder. A single cold shiver tumbles down his back, and Dean grabs his glass tighter.

The display reads: _I miss you too._

"I want to hear your voice. Just a little." It's empty. So much whiskey and food inside of him and he's still so incredibly empty. It's not the same. "C'mon, please."

Wesson: _Not now, pet. I'm sorry._

"When?" he whines.

Wesson: _When you're back. Sunday._

"That's like- an _eternity_!"

Wesson: _Complaining won't get you anywhere._

Dean sighs, sinks in on himself, turns to look out of the window. A mild storm is taking place out there. Dean feels small in the wideness of this place, the loneliness. If there was an accident, would they even get here in time to save everyone? They're pretty far out. Dean could die here, alone, all by himself, and nobody would notice. Dean swallows around a lump. "In case I'm mauled by a bear or something... I'd just like to tell you I'm sorry. ... For everything. For how it went down. ... I'm really sorry. I was stupid. The entire thing was stupid. ... Sorry."

He releases the button and has some sips from his glass while he waits for Sam to listen to the message. Regret already starts gnawing on him - he shouldn't have said that, not like that, shouldn't have whined about it so much -, but he swallows it all down. It's out. It had to be said at some point, right? Dean feels his head flushing even brighter than before.

He eventually peeks back at his phone. The newest message reads: _Okay._

Okay...? Dean hesitates. "That's... not exactly convincing."

Wesson: _It's better to sort out stuff like this in person. Let's discuss it once you're back._

Another sigh, shakier. Another drink. "Okay." A short pause. "I miss you."

Wesson: _You won't even notice the time flying by. I promise._

After a while, another: _I gotta go now. Keep up the good work, pet. I am very proud of you for enjoying yourself so much. I'm looking forward to having you back. Gn._

"Good night," Dean replies.

Smith, over and out. 

~ 

What a damn conflict of interests. If Dean had any muscle control left to do so, he'd grind his teeth now. He wants to leave about as much as he wants to stay. He thinks he might have developed a profound bound with Jie So by now. She and her tiny hands are a miracle and he's unworthy... of pretty much everything.

He gets drunk but stops himself from escalating again by going through last night's conversation. It hadn't felt like slurring so much when he was recording those messages. Jesus Christ. Dean blushes harder than he would like to admit being capable of. And... "Sammy"? Really now? That one's gonna backfire.

Sunday morning crawls closer and closer. Dean slowly comes to terms with not living in a fuzzy bathrobe anymore, but it's hard. His thoughts on Sam make it a little more comfortable. If anything, Sam is just as good as a fuzzy bathrobe.

He tries to keep his nerves together during the way back home. It would be a lie though to say he wasn't tempted to strangle John when the man fobs Dean off with a sorry "I can't tell you" _again_. Dean just wants to get home. Sam's phone is turned off; he's been checking every twenty minutes for the last hour now.

In the elevator of his apartment building, Dean feels like climbing the walls. Or at least stomping his foot. Something. Anything.

He had a feeling it would come to this, but to actually _see_ Sam waiting in front of his door, smile growing as soon as they make eye contact... It's like nothing else. Dean drops his suitcase to wrap his arms around Sam, squeezes and gets squeezed in return, can barely breathe but that's okay, that's alright. He's got him back. Finally.

"Welcome back," he hears. He takes a deep, deep breath, right against Sam's neck, presses his eyes closed. He can't reply just yet and Sam doesn't seem to mind. After some time of just standing and hugging each other right in the center of the corridor though, Dean receives a soft pat on the back. "Let's head inside." Dean nods.

He notices that his hands are shaking as he struggles with the keys, blinks, feels his heart hammering, his breath stumbling. Sam smoothens himself against Dean's back, warm and tall, and Dean suddenly is full enough to burst. The moment they're inside and Sam pulled the door closed behind them, Dean launches into what feels like the first kiss in weeks. _Is_ the first kiss in weeks. Oh God. Sam's hair is so soft. Has he always smelled this good? Oh God oh Godohgod.

A groan, hungry, and suddenly he is being lifted from the ground. He wants to cry (maybe does), holds on to Sam's neck and doesn't let go. Back. Back. Finally back. Like nothing's ever changed. They land on the bed, Dean buried and alive like he hasn't been in days. He hears himself grunting under the weight crushing him so good, under the tugs of Sam's teeth, the scrape of that tongue over his own, his teeth. Traces of mint, of coffee, ham sandwich. Dean tugs that collar closer with desperate fists, knows he is erect and that Sam can feel it pushing against his hip. He would beg for touches if Sam would let his mouth have a break. There is no need for that though, he figures, because Sam is a gift from high up above and knows where to put his hand without being told.

Through his pants and it's almost too much already, makes his hips buck, his mouth water, fists clenching harder, wishing to rip off every piece of clothing on both bodies on this bed, _his_ bed. Instead of sobbing his apology for not inviting Sam here earlier, Dean kisses sharper, deeper, moans without a thought on how needy he might sound.

Dean almost doesn't hear the low, "You really missed me, huh," over how fast he urges his mouth back over this other one. Sam's hand withdraws and Dean is willing to scream for it to return before he gets a pubic bone to rut against. The button of Sam's slacks is only painful on the first few drifts. Everything spins and throbs and is wonderful, even more so when Sam tucks Dean's arms up above his head, turns Dean's body into a long, long line, taut and stretching enough to hurt.

This. Dean squeezes his eyes shut, feels a groan building up low in his stomach, chest, throat. Sam's mouth pulls back and he can't chase it where it flees to, sees dancing lights behind his eyelids, feels the pressure of a forehead against his own, the burn of eyes, hot breath on his pulsing lips. Sam all but fucks him to that orgasm with his own dick not even halfway hard and Dean doesn't think he's ever been this loud during sex before.

It just fits. All of it. Everything. Sam's scent surrounding him, enchanting him. That one stupid cologne. The soft texture of Sam's clothes, the taste and sensation of Sam's breath, skin, hair, fingernails. The ghost of their kiss, the electricity bolting through Dean frying his brain. He can't decide between holding and rushing his breath.

Sam's lips slide over Dean's again eventually. Dean breathes, shudders, feels his cock giving a last feeble jolt in his pants, the hungrier, fuller one of Sam's digging into Dean's hipbone. Dean growls. His mouth is being licked open so he can pant all over Sam's tongue and it would have struck him as something disgusting before all this started. Funny how things change.

"Did you just come into your pants like a fucking teenager? Answer me."

"Yes." He thinks he says it. Somehow. Maybe it is audible.

"Yes who?"

"Wha-" Sam's cock pushes against Dean's, once and hard, and Dean almost yelps with how intense it feels. "Y-yes, S-Sam," he tries instead.

A growl, another shove. "'Mr. Wesson'," Sam corrects through both of their teeth.

So Dean sobs, "Yes, Mr. Wesson, sir."

One hand from around his arms snaps away, rids him of his jeans, his underwear; simply shoves both down to his knees. He's still hard, he notices, and gets his arms pressed deeper into the mattress. "Keep those up," Mr. Wesson instructs. Dean nods wildly.

The room is a little cold once he is completely naked but he's got Sam, Sam who drapes himself over him, kisses and sucks his mouth into a mess. Nobody had told Dean it could be like this with another guy. With any person at all, to be fair. Dean wants to throw his arms back around Sam but gets them pressed back down immediately with a "shhh", a hard rut against his overstimulated cock. He sobs and nods, doesn't know for what.

Sam's knuckles press into Dean's stomach as he undoes his fly, gets his dick out, smacks it where it leaves a burning hot ghost of a sensation next to Dean's bellybutton. Something tells Dean to calm his breathing, so he does, concentrates. Maybe it's in the way Sam keeps from kissing him, blinks down at him with a fucked-out expression, dark and open and strangely peaceful. Those lips are parted. Dean watches them move.

"You are gonna kneel on the edge of the bed now, Dean. I will push my cock all the way down your throat, and you will let me."

No question follows, so Dean doesn't answer. Sam getting up is his cue.

All naked with Sam still in full clothing but for the timid gap of his fly, it feels odd, but he still gets up, sits back on his haunches, looks up. He feels like his hands should go into his lap, on his thighs, if only for some more stability. The height difference works out almost perfectly. If only he ducks just a little lower... yes.

The room is very still except for their disharmonized breath, the slow, slick sound of a loose fist drifting up and down a wet cock.

 _Strange how fast things can escalate_ , Dean thinks.

He closes his eyes at the meeting of cockhead and lips, opens his jaw along with how one of those big hands puts itself against the side of his face. He's cradled, embraced. Sam's cock pushes over his tongue in one smooth, languid slide. The other hand comes to the other side of his face, framing it, cock pushing at the back of his throat. Dean feels himself flushing, inhales deep through his flaring nostrils.

This could be called "romantic" in some strange, unavailable way - maybe in the way Sam shoves into him so slowly, as if he was cautious not to hurt Dean, to choke him. But there is no foreplay, no nothing, no lingering. Not lingering _is_ lingering here, maybe, makes this special and beautiful somehow. The rhythm remains calm, loving. Sam pushes deeper every time he sinks down, doesn't have to hold Dean's head with any pressure at all. Dean feels damp warmth over his ears, in his hair. It makes goosebumps shiver down his neck, highly aware, taut. There is generous air for Dean to take in on each way up. This.

This is what truly helps him ground himself.

No sound from Sam, no warning once he starts picking up his pace. It's not a zero to a hundred, no, but Dean feels spit sliding down the corner of his mouth and doesn't think he has the capacities to take care of that right now. Breathing. Keep breathing. The time windows for air become scarce and scarcer, his throat fuller, Sam's cock thicker. Dean's toes curl at the first tickle of pubes against the very tip of his nose. If Sam sticks to his words, Dean will be taking him deeper than ever before.

They both appreciate when it happens. It's a silent contentment, something that seems to make the air around them warm up, vibrate. With his nose and lips mashed up against Sam's pubes, Dean tries to swallow. It's impossible. Sam holds his head so good, so steady. Dean can fully concentrate on keeping his throat relaxed, jaw wide, lashes dripping. His own spit is warm where it lands on his knees, the back of his hands.

Dean feels right here. He's untouchable here, safe, with Sam.

"Very... _very_... good."

A prayer. Their prayer. Dean is pliant in these hands.

The satisfaction only begins there. It shatters into tiny little pieces, right here, with them, and Dean knows Sam is going to pick this up another notch now. He trusts. It's okay. Sam plunges sharper and Dean doesn't gag. Another praise and Dean beams. Sam thoroughly enjoys fucking Dean's throat, and Dean doesn't mind that it's a one-way thing. And how would he? He's the one who doesn't enjoy it the other way around. It's nothing too exciting somehow. He doesn't mind. But this? This is grand.

For example: how every ridge or bump scrapes along the walls of his gullet, over his tongue, lips. The way it still gets harder, no matter how long they do this, like Sam's dick can't get enough, always finds another quarter of an inch to cram itself into. Dean is happy to make space. Every piece is taken and given with just as much devotion. They haven't done it as wild as this yet, but Sam's hands hold him good, so it will work. Dean simply goes with it. Not a single thought is inside of him.

Sam pulls back and Dean feels empty. On display. In the open. Sam must stare down at him, hand working furiously on his dripping cock, other thumbing at Dean's mouth, pressing on his tongue. Dean feels tears running down his cheeks; fresh ones. This.

"Keep your eyes closed."

Yes. He knows.

It gets caught in his lashes, eyebrows, all the way up his forehead, into his hair. The thumb eases his jaw wide enough to let Sam guide the tip back inside where it's safe and wet for him, where Dean can purse his lips and welcome the last, heavy pulses. He sucks and feels it cooling on his cheeks, under his eyes. He hums and loves how that makes Sam's cock throb once more. It withdraws then, leaving him warm and maybe slightly trembling, only a little out of breath anymore.

It could be moments, seconds, minutes before Sam puts his hands on Dean's shoulders, maybe kneels down. "Stay still," Sam instructs. The first drag of tongue over his eyelids makes Dean gasp oh-so softly. _What an intimate thing to do_ , he thinks, while he waits for Sam to finish licking his own come off of Dean's face.

[](http://hellhoundsprey.tumblr.com/post/139242848874/stay-still-sam-instructs-the-first-drag-of)

A tongue presses bitterness right into his gums, lips sealing, caressing him. Dean thinks he might have moaned. Sam's fingers in his hair make him want to crawl out of his skin.

"Lie down," Sam breathes. So calm. So ultimately. Dean would have complied to anything that voice would have asked of him.

So he lies down on his back, watches Sam undress. Where Dean is winter-pale, Sam's skin reminds him of bronze - slick and heavy and tight, like a fluid, like leather, animal. Sam stands tall and bare, eyes glistening and fingers twitching to his slim hips. Dean knows they need him just like he needs them.

Maybe this knowledge, this familiarity is what makes him let his legs fall open even wider, his body warmer when he says, "C'mere."

Sam moves to and over and onto him like a force of nature. Like a God. He grazes his mouth over Dean's, arms bulging where they are holding his upper body up, lashes dragging across Dean's temple. They kiss while Sam's knees draw up and finally relieve his arms, hook under the back of Dean's knees, shove his legs apart, and Sam fits just so so well. They both take a break to look between them, have to watch how good Sam's fingers look against the softness of the very beginning of Dean's legs, thumbs drifting over a loose sac, just barely grazing along the root of a blood fueled limb.

Sam asks him if this was worth the wait, so quiet and full of awe that it's almost enough to break Dean's brittle, old heart.

So Dean breathes, "Yes," and lets his eyes fall shut with the next touch of Sam's lips. 

~ 

"Now would be the opportunity to talk, I guess," Sam hums across the pillow.

Dean makes a sound of approval but refuses to open his eyes just yet. Sam's thumb grazes Dean's cheek. Dean can feel the drag of his stubble himself. "I'm sorry," he starts, "For everything."

"Everything?"

"For being a dick. For calling you a child." He blinks his eyes open now. "For... forgetting about your existence for a handful of days."

Sam wears his innocent gaze. It never fails to make Dean's heart swell. "You 'forgot'? Seriously?"

"It's... hard to explain." He lets his breath rush from him through his nostrils. His fingers find the soft underside of Sam's arm. "I guess it started out with giving you some space. To blow off some steam, you know." Dean lowers his eyes to where he fumbles with Sam's skin. "And then it kinda took on a life of its own. Work was intense. Some things had built up at my place that I had to take care of. I just kinda... forgot. Yeah." Eyes back up, shy smile. "Did you realize that lately, we don't spend much more than a few hours apart from each other?"

Sam's eyes shine in the warm light of the bedside lamp. "Yes. I did."

"It's... crazy."

No smile. Sam's thumb keeps stroking Dean's cheek. "'Crazy' as in... 'bothering you' crazy?"

Three seconds. "No," he huffs. To be honest, he hadn't thought about his opinion enough to give an answer yet... but it's better to clear this up right away. Easier. "It's just... It's not what I'm used to, you know."

"Hm," makes Sam. "It's new for me too. To be this close with someone."

A moment of hesitation prior to Dean's, "When was your last relationship?"

Sam's eyelids flutter. "Define 'relationship'."

"Something like, uh. Something like this." Dean traces the shape of Sam's triceps. "Like us."

"I've never had anything like us, Dean."

What a smile. What a _smile_! Dean might die from it. So small, so deeply, deeply touched. Like Christmas Eve. Like mirroring Dean's "yeah" that night.

"There were others, yeah. I'm not gonna lie. But you're the first in maybe... two years? Who lasted more than a couple of weeks. Or hours." A huff of laugh. "You know how it is."

"Hm," nods Dean.

"And you?"

"Hm?"

Sam's eyes are wetter now, beam fuller. "When was your last long-term thing?"

Dean blinks, takes a moment to think.

Sam looks at him, completely enraptured by the subtle, silent counting on Dean's lips.

"It's, uh," he manages. "It's been a while."

"How long?" Sam insists.

"Uhm. Eight? Eight years? More or less. Yeah." He looks down to his fingers again. "Eight years," he repeats, as if to himself.

"That's quite a while," he hears.

He shrugs, nods. Sighs.

"With a woman?"

More nodding. "Naturally. She had a kid, too. Not mine. But it was nice."

"How come you guys split up?"

Knuckles brush across his temple, find his hairline. Dean tries to pin down an artless answer. "A lot of reasons," he decides eventually. "Guess it boiled down to the fact that we didn't want the same things in life."

"Let me go out on a limb here... She wanted family. You wanted work."

"Probably. Yeah."

"I see." A moment. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"It's fine now." Dean nods, now really to himself. It feels good to say it out loud. "Took me some time, but that's how it goes, right? Gotta keep moving on."

"I'm very happy that I was lurking in that direction you happened to move to," Sam grins.

Dean has to join that smile. It all could have gone really different, couldn't it? He could have declined Sam's offer or could have ditched him later on because of the blowjob problem, could have told Sam to stick it where the sun doesn't shine when the whole vacation set-up had unfolded its wrongness. But he hadn't. They are still here, despite everything, even despite this minor detail about Dean's otherwise very traditional sexuality.

"Anyway," Dean huffs. "I'm sorry for how it went down. I really feel bad about it. I won't be as much of an ass next time. We'll simply talk it out, get it over with, and move on. Maybe that's best. I don't want to be angry with you, and I sure as hell don't want you to be angry with _me_."

A different smile - the proud one. Yeah. Dean is impressed himself how easily he got all of this out just now. There's always room for improvement, maybe even for a lost cause like him. Sam says, "We both had a lot of time to think about what happened. I'm not proud of what I did either."

"Sam."

"No, really." Sam rolls on his side, tucks Dean closer until they are hugging. Sam's fingers pet the top of Dean's head. The other hand spans across Dean's lower back. "I tend to be... dramatic."

"Maybe just a _little_ ," Dean mocks. He feels Sam's responsive smile against his forehead.

"I'll do my best to get a better hold of myself in the future."

"Okay. Me too."

How wonderful it is to just lie there together, limbs entangled, skin on skin - the whole nine. Sam's scent and cologne, two different laundry detergents from Sam on the one and Dean's bed on the other side. It all mingles into something new.

"Oh. And Dean?"

"Yeah?"

A playful tug on Dean's hair. "Call me 'Sammy' one more time and you'll really regret it." Sam laughs. Dean joins in.

They sleep a while, are awake for a while, sleep again. Sam decoys Dean into the shower with the help of kisses and, well, the obvious fact to get his face truly cleaned. The kisses are the real reason though, if Dean is being honest. He had already forgotten about those traces of their mess under the pretty layer of Sam's saliva.

Making out under a shower is something one can get truly lost in. Dean's bathroom isn't as spacious or luxurious as Sam's but once all eyes are closed, there is almost no difference. Dean has Sam crowded against the tiles, hands nestled around Sam's hips. This waist is so tiny that Dean is pretty sure he could close his fingers around it if he only squeezed hard enough. Those hipbones though. Dean could spend all day tracing their shapes with his thumbs.

The water beating down on them is hypnotizing in its steadiness, in its weight. It slicks their lips and skin, and maybe that's the excuse their dicks needed to rise to full attention yet again. Neither of them really cares about that though. Just kissing, standing. Sam's hand are roaming over Dean's back, hinting more or less wide circles. It reminds Dean of the resort. The resort reminds him of Sam's present. Sam's present reminds him of Sam. It all comes down to this, really. What a bliss to have someone who can make you feel like this, Dean thinks.

Sam pulls Dean a little closer, pushes his hands further down. Their cocks bump against each other, sending some sparks along to Dean's fresh goosebumps. He groans, so Sam echoes it.

His skin grows tighter with a firm grope to his left ass cheek, sudden and unmistakable and mean.

Colorful shivers. Sensation of sweat despite the running shower.

Dean's eyelids flutter.

One of Sam's long, long fingers slides into the crease of Dean's ass and rubs right over his hole.

"DUDE!"

Dean almost slips with how powerfully he pushes himself off of Sam, stumbles some, struggles to get a hand against a wall, can't feel his fingers, his face.

"That- NO! What the FUCK, Sam, what-"

"Hey, relax." Sam is a deer in a spotlight, palms facing Dean indicating harmlessness. Dean has no capacities to wonder how he himself must look. "I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry. I was just-"

"Don't freaking TOUCH me there! GOD!" Everything is spinning. No. "I'm not like that! I don't DO this kind of sick shit, you hear me?! I TOLD YOU I wasn't gay!"

"Would you QUIT SCREAMING at me?!"

Please.

Dean blinks, realizes he is shielding his forehead with his hand that is not forcing down against the wall. He has sunk to the edge of the bathtub. Bile rises as soon as he is seeing clear again, and he swallows with determination.

Don't let Sam know.

"Fuck, Dean." Sam is closing in on him, bows down, face contorted in one part horror and one part worry. Dean wills himself not to flinch away from that hand. "What is going on with you? Are you alright?"

"I'm... I'm..." Spinning, too fast spinning. Swallow. Again. Breathe. In, out, slowly, in, out. "Yeah, I'm just... It f-freaked me out. Okay? Don't... d-don't do that again. Ju-just don't."

Sam's fingers through his hair could be metal spoons, could be iron bars, snakes. A bitter laugh smells like acid. "I wasn't even _doing_ anything."

"Don't," Dean warns. Anger is better than panic. "It's- i-it's disgusting. It's f-f-filthy."

A palm like a brick down the side of his throat. Dean bares, tenses. The water is still running. More acid. "We're in the shower, man. Nothing's dirty in the shower."

"I'm n-n-not gonna argue about- a-about levels o-of cleanliness of the h-hum-man anus w-with you!"

"Hey, hey." Arms around Dean could be chains. He has to push those thoughts away, doesn't need them, can't afford them. This is Sam, Sam, nobody else but Sam; keep it together. Sam is good. Sam is nice. "Shhh, calm down. I'm sorry. Calm down. Everything is fine."

They rock back and forth with Dean being tucked up tight against Sam's chest, counting tiles, not thinking but simply breathing, concentrating. "I'm s-s-sorry," he manages after a while, presses his lips together at the sounds of his own stammering. This is bad. Sam had mentioned the stuttering before. Dean is being too obvious. Calm down. Calm the fuck down. "I'm s-s-sorry, S-s-sam-m-m. I'm s-sorry. I didn't wanna, d-didn't w-wanna y-y-yell at y-you."

"It's okay," Sam assures into his hair.

Dean swallows, nods.

Back in bed after what feels like a lifetime, dry and warm and safe, Dean can breathe again, feels his body again. He's exhausted. He had no idea it would hit him this bad. Maybe he _should_ have told Sam from the very beginning. But then again, Sam never seemed to be interested in... that. In the end, Dean guesses, he should have known it would come to this. Wishing it away doesn't make it go away. How does that saying go again with the sleeping in a made bed?

Sam peppers kisses from temple to forehead. He had helped slipping shorts and shirt on Dean's body. It's almost too warm now but at least it's safe. Safe is good. Sam is safe and good and nothing bad can happen with Sam. Everything is good. Everything is fine.

"You and your hygiene-craze," Sam chuckles.

"I'm sorry," Dean repeats with his eyes already shut. "I'm sorry for ruining it. For making a scene."

"You didn't ruin anything."

"Really?"

"Really."

"... I'm sorry."

"It's okay, pet." A kiss between Dean's eyebrows.

Breathe. All is fine.

You'll be fine.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extra long chapter this time since everything else would have lead to a monstrosity of a cliffhanger which I do not want to torture y'all with. Enjoy!

Nothing has changed. Sam and him watch the game together with a few beers like they always do, still laugh and get way too emotional over too good or too bad performances of the players. Sam's hand is resting on Dean's knee when it isn't busy doing some kind of gesture high up in the air. It's all still the same. So why is Dean so tense? He repeats it to himself over and over - you are fine, all is fine, no need to worry, Sam has got you.

"I should get going," mumbles a mouth whose bottom lip is caught between Sam's teeth. Dean pushes a hand against Sam's shoulder in addition, but Sam doesn't mind it too much. Those fingers still play with the buttons of Dean's shirt.

"Mmmh." An unwilling sound. Doe eyes, little boy smirk. "Why? It's just starting to get comfortable." A hand to Dean's crotch; deeper smirk at what he feels developing. "I can't let you leave like that."

Sam gives head like he majored in it. He lets Dean drape his arms and hands over his upper back and hair while giving him the best excuse to stay just a little longer. Dean can't help it that he dissolves into a puddle under this mouth, this man, and it's twice as good because it finally takes his mind off of his panic. At least a little. He is naked from the waist down and Sam shoved his thighs way too wide apart. Dean feels on display in the gigantic room that is Sam's living space even though the only other thing moving in here are the images on the forgotten TV.

It's a slow rhythm tonight, hair-pulling and heart-wrenching good. Sam is making every second count. If Dean didn't worry about those fingers way too close to his taint while they are playing with his sac, he surely would have lost his mind by now. They could slip lower. It wouldn't be far. It would be done in less than a second. Dean's legs try to close but Sam's hands go to his knees and keep them in place. Dean allows himself a small, pained sigh.

It tickles when Sam runs his fingertips along the insides of Dean's thighs, weakens Dean's resistance further. Sam swallows around the entire length of Dean's cock and Dean forgets about pretty much everything for a moment - before fingers shove into the crease of his ass.

Dean immediately mutters, "No," squirms, feels his breath catching in his throat.

After Sam pulled off of Dean, his reply is, "Just relax, pet."

"I can't." Dean has his eyes closed now. If they were open he would be forced to look into Sam's amenable face. Sam is so kind, so hot, and Dean can't get over this. It's exasperating. "I can't, I-I just can't; I'm sorry." This time, Sam doesn't stop him from closing his legs.

He hears Sam sitting up, has the man's fingers caught between his thighs. They don't withdraw. "Do you think it would bother me if you weren't a hundred percent clean down there? 'Cause, you know - I'm a grown-up, believe it or not. It's not like I expect honey and bouquets, Dean."

Dean wants to disappear. He doesn't want to have this talk, doesn't want to react or to even listen.

Sam pulls his fingers free now, lets one hand stroke Dean's outer thigh and the other Dean's cheek. Dean makes a face but eventually leans into the touch. "Nothing some soap can't fix. And I don't mind it, honestly."

"But _I_ do."

A pecked kiss to Dean's lips. "Why?"

"Mh. Because. Because it's strange. The smell is... I... I only have to think a-about it and m-m-my stomach is cramping up."

"It's natural," Sam hums. "It's a part of you. Everybody has a colon."

"This isn't a-about everyb-body, S-S-Sam, this is ab-bout _me_! And _I_ don't f-feel good about it!"

Sam kisses him, cradles his face with both hands now. Dean can feel his own sweat between their skins, feels his throat seizing up. "Concentrate on me," Sam tells him in a quick gulp for air. So Dean does. Everything to keep the panic away is welcome. Sam is welcome just as well, naturally.

Breathing through his nose, Dean lets himself be guided by Sam's tongue, nips of teeth. Not long into it and he reaches for Sam's hair again, right where it sets off on the back of his neck. Even though Sam always lets him grab it as hard as he wants, Dean never tugs too harsh.

When Sam pulls back, Dean feels light-headed, throbbing, heavy. "Better?"

He nods, exhales deep and shuddering.

"Good." Sam kisses him again. "Leave it all to me." Another kiss, wetter. Hands run down Dean's chest, back into his lap. "Just leave it all to me, pet."

Dean is hard again. Or still? He has no idea. He can't imagine it lasted through the panic but he didn't pay attention (couldn't). Lewd kisses combined with spit-wet hands around his dick have Dean moaning.

"You are perfect from head to toe. I wish I could touch you everywhere at once."

The guy can still make Dean blush like a school girl. It's not exactly fair. Nobody else can get him where Sam takes him.

Sam is kneeling over Dean's lap now. Dean can't remember when the man could have moved. "It can feel so good, Dean. I promise." One hand dives from dick down to balls, cradles them. "You gotta trust me." He feels Sam's hair falling against his forehead. "Do you trust me, Dean?"

"I do," Dean breathes.

"Do you think I would ever hurt you? Or talk you into something that wasn't good for you?"

"No." An added, "Of course not."

On the next kiss, Dean can feel Sam smiling. He would do the same if he wasn't gasping thanks to the sudden change in both pressure and pace Sam is applying to his cock. He groans open-mouthed right against Sam's tongue. In only a handful of minutes, Sam has him on the brink of coming.

Dean wants to warn but Sam is already stirring. His legs move almost on their own when Sam fits himself between them, Dean's dick held between his lips, hands shoving at his knees. Dean grabs for hair as desperate as he hauls for oxygen. Everything pulsates, spins him off and away. Sam is so good to him.

"Oh." It stumbles over Dean's lips all secret as he starts to come, just like Sam's thumb suddenly but insistently pushes between his ass cheeks. His thighs quiver and his fingers curl, stomach grows tight, but it's too late to stop his orgasm now and Sam's torso is keeping the space between his legs occupied.

Sam sucks Dean dry with his thumb tucked tight against his asshole, both of Dean's hands in his hair. When Dean manages to pry his eyes open, Sam has his closed in satisfaction. When his exhale rushes from his lungs, Dean forces his body to relax against the cushions of the couch.

In the corner of his vision, he sees Sam wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyebrow raising and his smirk clearly visible despite the little light. "See? Wasn't so bad, was it?"

The thumb presses down once more before it retreats. Dean can't shake off the sensation for several gruesome minutes.

~ 

"Ouch." Dean can't think of anything else to say. _Ouch_. Can't think of anything else at all, really. He knows his face is flushing embarrassingly red embarrassingly fast right now and he can feel himself clenching around Sam's fingertip but those things seem far away right now. _Ouch_. He repeats it but nothing comes out of his mouth.

He stares down to where he has his hands in Sam's slick hair, where Sam is bobbing his mouth on his cock. He can't see where he is fingering him. Dean sways in what used to be a stable stand a few moments ago.

The digit only just breaches him and yet already is way too much. Tears come, but the water from the showerhead is a good alibi if Sam should happen to look up now. Dean blinks, cranes his neck, tries to keep breathing. It's alright. It's Sam. Sam can make it feel good. He always makes you feel good. It'll be the same here. Trust him.

The faintest nudge deeper and Dean rushes his, "Please stop."

Sam acts immediately, gets up to his feet to hold Dean close. There is no word from either of them and Dean wonders if Sam can feel him shaking.

They are dry and halfway dressed when Sam's voice fills the otherwise silent room. "Is there something I should know, Dean?"

Dean has his back to Sam. He watches his reflection buttoning his shirt with a blank expression. "Hm? What do you mean?"

Pregnant silence.

Dean keeps buttoning his shirt.

"The way you... react."

Dean's fingers work. He can see Sam looking at him over his shoulder.

"... Did something ever... happen to you?"

Slightest frown. All buttons are done. Crap. "As in what?" Dean mutters, turns to look for his pants. He almost bumps into Sam whose shirt is still wide open; forgotten.

"As in 'bad experience'," Dean hears.

"I'm not gay."

"So you never did these things with another guy before?"

Dean holds his pants out in front of him. An unnerved sigh. "That's what 'not gay' means. Literally." His frown deepens as he steps into his pants, pulls them up maybe a little too energetic. He watches his own hands very closely. "Anal freaks m-me out; I t-told you." Shit. Stop. Breathe. Button your pants. Breathe. "That's it. That's all." Almost under his breath, he adds, "N-nobody freaking 'bad experienced' me or an-nything. Christ, Sam."

"Okay." He can't see if Sam is nodding or not. It doesn't really matter.

Arms circle around his waist, tug his back against a warm, naked chest. Sam leans his temple against Dean's neck as if he was an affectionate cat.

Dean keeps from putting his hands on Sam's forearms. He doesn't trust them.

"We'll get there eventually," Sam hums and Dean guesses it's half to himself and half to Dean. A kiss to Dean's neck which Dean doesn't feel over the tension in his stomach. "Just leave it all to me."

~ 

Sam forwards John an address Dean has never heard before. It comes with an easiness that makes the hairs on the back of Dean's neck stand straight up. Sam hasn't completely leaned back into the seat when Dean already asks where they are going. "Don't worry," is all Sam has to say. Yeah. Because being reminded not to worry is not worrisome at all.

There is laughter when Sam catches Dean in the act of trying to recognize the street names they are passing. It's supposed to be a joke when Sam quirks his eyebrows over his declaration that this is no abduction, Dean, so Dean gives an exaggeratedly dry laugh and an honest grunt and roll of eyes. He receives a hand on top of his knee which then goes for his hand instead, curls around and inside of it. Soft eyes, softer mouth repeating, "Don't worry," and Dean wished he was still naïve enough to believe in that.

The car comes to a halt in a rather unspectacular residential district. Rent here must be below what Dean is paying for his place. There are no elevators, no receptionists, no lobbies. Two older people are having a chat in front of the tiny front yard. As they get out of the car, Dean's eyes graze the surroundings, mouth a little gaping, feet a little uncooperative. John leaves and Dean watches the limousine disappear around the next best street corner.

A hand tugs his one into an easy but decisive hold.

When Dean's head spins around to face Sam - holding his hand in broad daylight in the middle of the street Sam -, said man is looking at him with what can only be named as timid anticipation.

Dean wants to say something but can't come up with anything.

"Oh, Samuel!"

The foreign voice almost knocks Dean off his feet. Suddenly, he can feel his heart going for a world record in his chest and has to put his hand over it in a desperate attempt to calm it down.

To Dean's complete horror, Sam is pulling him towards these people. "Mr. Palmer, Mrs. Clark. Good afternoon."

"We haven't seen you in quite a while. How have you been, Samuel?"

"Ah, the usual." Slowly but surely, Dean is being dragged along. He wants to die but also rip his hand from Sam's but also punch Sam's damn face. "How did your surgery go, Mrs. Clark? You look finer than ever."

"Charmer," Mrs. Clark titters, and Dean blushes for it in Sam's place.

Sam tugs him even closer. They are shoulder to shoulder in front of two seniors in the middle of a street in a district Dean has never been to before and Dean's palm is so sweaty he is sure it must be dripping by now.

"Let's have tea sometime soon," Sam proposes. "It's been ages. I miss it."

"Most definitely," Mr. Palmer smiles.

"Will you be around more often again, dear?"

A squeeze to Dean's hand. Dean doesn't see it but Sam's voice sounds like an adorable smile. "I sure hope so."

While Sam says his goodbyes very politely and very not awkwardly, Dean raises his gaze high enough to peer over to the house front. A slightly rusty sign announces house number fifty.

It's a nice spring day. Sam is guiding Dean into the house where it's a little cooler and Dean relaxes immediately once they are alone again. "Sam," he hisses, tries to pull his hand free. "What the fuck was _that_ about? We, we can't just, just-"

"It's alright," Sam hums. There is some extra pressure to keep Dean's hand in his own but it fades together with Dean's efforts.

"It's not," Dean corrects under his breath.

Dimples. "It's safe, trust me. Nobody from CS would come closer than ten miles to this neighborhood."

A scoff. "Yeah, no joke. It's a damn rat hole."

A tug closer to Sam. A pecked kiss to Dean's mouth. "People are very sweet around here. There's a gay bar three blocks down and a strip club around a corner or two, but honestly - it's really not that bad."

"Why are we here?" Dean finds his words muffled against Sam's lips. The guy is fidgety, one giant smile on six feet four and his mouth so warm where it kisses Dean like he can barely keep himself from doing it, and oh, if that doesn't make Dean's knees weak. He had hoped they would go for a lazy Sunday afternoon drink and maybe some "action" later, actually, and now Dean finds his current horror vanishing in the warm waters of familiar anticipation.

He has his eyes closed and his mouth full of Sam's and his own saliva when Sam asks him, "Do you trust me, pet?"

Dean nods his head, sighs into the next hungry kiss.

"Good." A last smooch, loud enough to leave Dean wanting, and a tug to his hand. "Then come."

They climb a set of stairs, two, another three. Since Sam is walking in front of Dean, he seems even taller than usual. Light is falling through the colored glasses of the windows, lapping at Sam's suit jacket, his jeans, his hair. Sam happens to be most beautiful in the most subsidiary moments. Realizing he could have missed this sight in front of him right now, Dean reminds himself to have a closer look at Sam more often again. Habit makes lazy – they are nowhere near old enough to give in to that just yet.

They stop in front of an innocent door, still holding hands. Dean waits for something to happen, for Sam to make the next move. He expects the man to fumble for a key. Instead, Sam peeks at him over his shoulder and slowly lets Dean's hand slide from his own.

All of a sudden, everything is different. Dean's skin is tight from the tension in the air. The space on the stairwell is limited but seems to scale down even more under the pull of Sam's eyes. Sam never looked at him like this before. Dean forgets how to blink.

Thirty-two year old CEO Sam Wesson does neither look like thirty-two nor like CEO, not like Wesson, not like Sam. Not even "Sam" ever seemed this vulnerable in front of Dean. Maybe if a breeze came from the wrong direction right now, the man in front of him would crumble to dust.

A tiny, flat inhale. Pale mouth. "I want to show you something."

Dean gives a faint nod. "Okay...?"

"You don't have to be afraid," and it's barely a whisper. Sam's focus switches between Dean's left and right eye. "If you're getting freaked out we can leave again."

Now Dean _has_ to give a nervous laugh. He feels horrible for what it seems to do to Sam, so he hauls right back. "It's, uh, you, you keep repeating that I should stay calm, man. Kinda makes me worry in the first place, you know?" Slow. Easy. Whatever is going on right now, he has to be careful with Sam. He makes a step forward, close enough to bring a soothing hand to Sam's arm. Dean tries an encouraging smile. "Whatever it is - I trust you. Go ahead."

Sam beams with the words. Thank God. Dean's smile widens at the sight of a slightly puffier chest. "Okay," Sam mutters after a while.

"Okay," Dean mirrors, pets Sam's arm once more before pulling back.

"... It's not exactly 'showing', though."

"Huh?" Dean watches Sam's effort to keep eye contact as long as possible as he bends down to fumble with something under the doormat. What he produces from down there is a black cloth of some sort.

When Sam brings it to chest level, Dean can make out a strap, a slightly curved shape. Sam's fingers cradle it as if it was made of something less sturdy than the satin it obviously is, as if he was sorry for keeping it under the rug. "Not with your eyes. Not at first."

Dean opens and closes his mouth. Then, he points at what is in Sam's hands. "Is... Is that a blindfold?"

Rather feebly, Sam answers, "Yes."

Dean's finger, hand, then arm sinks back down. He doesn't know what to say, what to think. Nothing matches. If this is a kinky game of some sort, then why isn't Sam his usual confident self? Does he think it would bother Dean? Dean could totally go for a stupid blindfold, he thinks.

"It's no problem if-" "I've never had-"

They start and stop talking simultaneously and both look terribly embarrassed. Which is stupid, Dean figures, because he doesn't see a reason for Sam to be like this. Dean waves his hand in a dismissive gesture. "You first," he offers.

Sam clings to the piece of fabric in his hands. "... Not out here."

"Then let's head inside," Dean sighs with something in between confused and impatient. It had been good between the kissing and this. Why must Sam make this so complicated right now? It surely can't be _that_ bad... whatever it is that Dean is about to see. Or, well, _not_ see. Be shown. Yes. That's how Sam had put it. Dean points to his own face. "Put it on. Come on."

He closes his eyes in a precautious measure. Darkness engulfs him completely once the smooth fabric has settled on his skin. While Sam tugs it in place with what Dean imagines are slightly damp fingers, he blinks his eyes open in a test. Absolutely nothing. Blackness.

"Is this alright?" Sam sounds like a damn five-year-old. Dean hasn't got the patience for this right now. Someone could come out of their door to find him being blindfolded by his boss in a damn staircase in some damn rotten building in the middle of the day. Nothing is fucking "alright".

"I'm blind, I'm ready, let's _go_ ," he urges. To Dean's delight, Sam complies and starts searching his suit jacket for the key. Dean keeps a hand on the other one's biceps. It's odd to not see a thing, so he's desperate for any sort of stability. The lock opens audibly and Dean turns and steps into the direction Sam's hand on the back of his shoulder is directing him to go, careful not to trip.

Fully inside, Sam pulls the door closed behind them and afterwards puts his other hand on Dean's back as well. Dean exhales through his nose, keeps his hands next to his hips. Sam's presence and warmth is calming him but yet Dean can't deny that he is pretty nervous. Why would Sam go through such a hassle to show something to him? Why is it in this ancient apartment building? Something is foul about all of this. It's so not Sam. Dean feels a little like when Sam had pulled the door closed after coming to his office, when he had grabbed Dean's arm, when he had told Dean not to worry about that mysterious vacation - as if Sam was someone entirely else compared to what Dean had thought him to be.

"This is not easy for me," Sam confesses into the crook of Dean's neck.

"You don't say." Dean feels bad for being sarcastic when Sam is so obviously tender... but then again, what does Sam expect? This is all very weird. Dean needs to lighten up the mood or he might suffocate on it.

No complaint comes. Instead, Sam's hands travel down Dean's back, circle his waist, entangle in front of Dean's stomach. Dean puts his hands on top of them, strokes with a soft thumb.

"Where are we, Sam?"

"My place," Sam mutters.

Dean frowns behind the blindfold. "Uh," he starts.

"The actual one. What you know is the... 'official' one."

"... Oh."

"The other is more convenient. Much closer to work. Good for parties, too, with all the space." Sam nuzzles Dean's neck. Dean can't do anything but to listen at this point. "But _here_... This here is my _real_ home. Where I _feel_ at home."

"I didn't know you had another place," Dean breathes.

"Nobody does." Tickle of lashes along Dean's jaw. "Except maybe the IRS. And John."

Everything is warm. Dean can't put his finger on whether it's comfortable or stifling. His throat feels dry one way or the other. "Why didn't you tell me before?" he croaks.

"Hm. 'The burnt child dreads the fire'... or something poetic like that." A kiss to the back of Dean's neck and then Sam's weight lifts off of him. Hands slowly pull back, away from underneath Dean's. "I brought someone up here before, but what followed isn't a fond one of my memories. I am more cautious ever since." With his hands on either of Dean's sides, Dean presumes them to be about an arm's width apart. Sam's voice is close, his body heat almost palpable. "I trust you, Dean, so I brought you here. Because I think it can work with you."

Some silence for Dean to process all the things he just had been entrusted with. Even though it's so much he has heard, he feels strangely empty. He says, "Thank you," even though he isn't sure what for. For Sam's trust in bringing Dean here? For Sam's trust in telling Dean these things? For Sam's courage to open this wide for Dean? Unimaginable. For Dean, something like this seems unimaginable.

"Remember when we talked about flaws?" Dean nods. Sam's fingers rub him almost absently in their affection. "This here might be mine. Trust issues. Nothing personal at all by the way, and I hope you know that. You do, don't you?"

Dean nods once more. "Of course." He would say more if he knew any good words for this kind of moment.

A deep, relieved sigh. It makes Dean smile, somehow, and now he can breathe easier again himself. When Sam is at ease - truly and not pointedly -, there is nothing to worry about. Sam is in control. Sam is bulletproof.

"This means a lot to me," Sam hums.

"To have someone up here?"

"To have _you_ up here."

"Hm," smiles Dean. Warmth spreads in his cheeks.

Hands travel from Dean's flanks up to his shoulders. "I've thought about this for a long time. How it would be. How you would like it."

"Would help if I could _see_ ," Dean snorts.

"Not yet." A soft push. Dean wonders if Sam is grinning as well right now. "Okay. Don't laugh... but I want you to _feel_ the place. The energies of the rooms, to be exact."

Okay. Don't laugh. Don't fucking laugh. God. This is hard.

"Looks can be deceiving," Sam tells him with his voice all low while Dean grins to himself with his laughter right there on his tongue. This is important to Sam somehow, so he will play along... but oh boy, the shit Dean is gonna give him once this is over. "I want you to tell me the first things that come to your mind when you enter the individual rooms." A push against his back turns Dean aware of his vulnerability. The hilarity finally lets him be. A rewarding pat as if Sam knew what he was thinking. "Walk slowly. I'll tell you when to stop and when and how to move. Don't worry about falling. I've got you."

Dean could say _you better have_ but instead nods and repeats, "You've got me."

"Okay." Pressure against Dean's back. "Walk straight ahead now. It's a long, narrow corridor." Dean does as he is told. After a few timid steps, Sam's hand gently moves down his arm until it lifts it by Dean's wrist. Dean's fingers find the smooth surface of a wall and slide over it as he keeps walking. "This is the same wallpaper as in my maternal grandmother's dining room," Sam's mouth hums right next to Dean's ear. The warm breath hitting his skin is making him shiver. "It's a light green with golden flowers. Thistles, to be exact. My grandmother used to tell me Count soandso gave it to her in person while she was staying in Paris after the first World War." Dean's fingers slide over the edges and dents of the bulged pattern. "Of course she was senile at that point already. A child believes in the craziest stories though, so I find myself utterly in love with the pattern up to this very day. It had to be this one for the corridor. I come through the door and instantly feel good. Watch your step." Just when Dean's finger bump against a doorframe, Sam guides his arm back down. He tiptoes for a possible obstacle and finds the edge of a rug. He plants his feet securely across it.

"The living room," Dean is being told.

"Is there a door, or...?" His arm lifts itself, feels for said possible door. Sam gets a hold of it, guides it.

"Yes."

Untreated wood. Ah. That's that smell.

"I like to keep it open when I'm alone."

Dean turns his head left and right. It doesn't make sense since it doesn't help him see through the blindfold, but his instincts haven't gotten used to the change yet. "I can imagine. The room is small, isn't it?"

"What makes you think so?"

"The sound... It's so muffled. As if the walls were pretty close." He feels around with his feet. Sam lets him tumble deeper into the room but keeps a safe hand on his shoulder. "Or is it because of the rug?"

"Both." Sam sounds pleased. Dean smiles again. This is pretty cool, actually. It's interesting to pay attention to different senses. "Here." Sam nudges him to his right. Both of his hands are being held out in front of him - until they meet resistance. Dean has to fumble for a moment but once he gets it, he gasps in delight.

"Books!"

"Exactly."

Sam leads him sideways while keeping his hands at the length it took for them to find the books. They move and move and the line of books doesn't seem to end. "Wow," is all Dean can think of to express himself. It's only after eight increasingly wider steps that Sam stops him. As Sam is talking once more, Dean feels for the bookshelf's surface. The scent of dusty books and again untreated wood has something magical about it.

"I was quite the bookworm when I was younger. My high school's library had those big sales every other year and I happened to buy almost everything. At some point, my folks were worried about my future love life with me spending every free hour of the day with reading."

He turns Dean about ninety degrees, one step forward, one step to the left. More books. "... You've gotta be kidding me."

"I read every single one."

Another four steps until Dean asks, "I've never seen you with a book before, though. How come?"

Sam answers at five with, "Somewhere between college and work, free hours became less and less. I can't afford burying myself in literature all night if I have work all day, a workout and a date." A soft kiss to Dean's cheek at the last word. "Don't quote me on that, but you are _way_ more fun than Nietzsche."

Dean laughs and his breath comes right back at him as it collides with the objects in front of him. He feels a little light-headed with his heightened senses, the scents and textures. Sam is warm against his back, like a heavy blanket, and when Dean focuses, he realizes his leg is warmer than the rest of his body. He turns his head to his left, hands still against the books. "Is- is there a window? Is there sunlight?"

A snicker. "Hey, you're pretty good at this."

Dean puts on a triumphal grin he isn't sure Sam can see.

They walk into the presumable center of the room. Sam makes him sit down on a firm sofa. When he wants to lean his back against it, there is nothing to lean against.

"It's wide," Sam explains. Dean hears an audible pat from about one of Sam's ridiculous arm's lengths away. His hand is being placed on the sofa. He instantly moves his fingers to get a feel of its material. "Tell me what comes to your mind."

"Suede," Dean says immediately. Somehow, he can feel more clearly if he raises his chin. "It's very soft... but not wrinkly at all. I think I actually smelled it all the way across the corridor."

"Very good." Sam's hand places itself flat on top of Dean's. Instead of being intertwined, their fingers are stacked on top of each other. Sam presses Dean's palm firmer against the sofa. "This is lamb's leather, by the way. Hence the elasticity."

"Dead baby sheep," Dean translates.

"Yes."

"Man. That's hard."

"It's amazing quality. You can feel it yourself, can't you?"

"Yeah, sure. But... Dude."

Sam's lips slide along the shell of Dean's ear; not kissing, only touching. They feel just as soft as the leather beneath Dean's hand. "I certainly enjoy a good lamb's roast. You would, too. Isn't it more appreciative to use its skin as well?"

Dean thinks _probably_ and actually answers, "Hm."

The sensory journey continues. Sam makes Dean run his hand over the carpet before he urges him to kneel down and press his cheek to it, too. It's incredibly soft. Sam tells him it's colored in a soft beige and that it reminds him of Dean's skin. Next to the macabre suede, this comment feels inappropriate to Dean, but he doesn't vocalize that. He knocks on top of the coffee table when Sam tells him to, guesses the wood incorrectly (it's _oak_ ), is being handed a framed picture. "Heavy," he decides, "and cold." Sam describes the picture the marble is holding: his first day of school, parents on either side of him. Dean is promised the permission to look and laugh at it later, since Sam is wearing one of those stupid sailor style uniforms for little boys. He says his mother had a thing for those and made him wear them until he shredded three of them in one setting - with blunt elementary school scissors.

Dean smells the curtains. Sam explains he uses lavender oil and that it's twice as wonderful to have a breeze whistling through them in the summer like this. At least one of Sam's hand is on Dean's body at all given times. It doesn't feel uncomfortable for a single second.

The kitchen is right next to the living room. A small island in the middle, another window. Everything is wooden here as well. "Narrow but practical," Dean says. He lets his head be turned where his nose is taking it. There are apples and fresh lemons. His skin is throbbing a little where Sam rubs the presumably yellow zest over the back of Dean's hand but at least it smells good. All organic. Dean approves.

"Even the floor," Dean mumbles as they make their way back down the corridor to go to the other rooms. He wonders how big those are going to be. The building didn't look too enormous on the outside, but the square feet add up little by little.

"What 'even the floor'?"

Dean presses the heel of his shoe down to pull a soft sound from the floor. "Wood."

"Yes." Dean feels Sam's dimple against his cheek as he is kissed there. "Very good, pet. Very good."

He beams with the praise. It's meaningless little things he is experiencing here, actually, but Sam makes them feel like big achievements - and this joy doesn't even take in mind all the intimate information Sam is sharing with him. If Dean had been slightly hurt that he hadn't been brought here earlier, it has been completely replaced by the bliss of being entrusted with so much. Dean can absolutely understand now that Sam had needed time to prepare himself for this, that he had to test Dean if he was the kind of person who could appreciate his home like it deserves to be appreciated. It's perfectly reasonable, really, especially for someone as familiar with personal borders as Dean.

"What's next?" Dean feels for a doorknob and misses by what must be miles. He chuckles to himself, a giddy little sound, and hears Sam doing the same. It's really fun. He's glad he agreed to this. "Bedroom? Bathroom? Wine cellar?"

"Mmmh, maybe later," Sam probably grins. Dean hears the jingling of keys, then a lock being undone. He wants to rumble a faked scared, "Oooh," but stops when the opening of the door doesn't come after the unlocking.

Both hands come onto Dean's shoulders again. He blinks behind his blindfold, hands now resting against the door. "Sam?" He turns to look over his shoulder. Sam's forehead presses against his own. The frolic is gone, just like that. Dean almost gasps under the sudden weight. Sam's hands could be made of lead.

"Remember: tell me what you're thinking."

It's obviously not a question but when nothing happens for a few moments too many, Dean nods more or less confidently with his, "Okay."

He hears the door opening in front of him. They step inside. The door closes behind him.

Sam's hands direct him to make a few steps into the unknown space.

"Different," Dean says out loud - and hesitates at the sound of it. "It's so... _muffled_ in here." He raises his nose but there is nothing to smell.

The weight of Sam's hands lifts as they let go of Dean.

"Continue."

Dean stills. It seems impossible to say where Sam's voice came from just now. He tries to spin around but as he realizes how utterly lost he is without the guidance of Sam's hands, he decides against it.

"It's, uh." He licks his lips. Surprisingly dry. How long ago had his last drink been? The air feels comfortably warm here. Thick. Almost a little fuzzy. "It's... heavy? But nice." After another moment of contemplating, he adds, "Warm."

"Nice?" Sam repeats. "In what way?"

"It reminds me of that... that restaurant you took me to once." Soft come and go of a smile. "You know which one." Again, he has to swallow, coughs.

"Are you alright?"

"Uhm, yeah. Sure. It's just, uh... The, the acoustics are... It's strange? How, h-how big is this room, Sam?"

"Remember the master bedroom in my loft?"

Dean gasps, turns his head in the impossible search for Sam. "No. Way."

"Yes."

"Now you're fucking with me. No way, Sam. This must be a shoebox! I'll bump into a wall if I make as much as two steps, won't I?"

"Why don't you try it?"

Half a step before Dean hesitates. Maybe not such a bright idea.

"Don't worry," Sam assures from God knows where. Dean doesn't feel the air move, doesn't feel Sam's breath or skin or body heat. "I won't let you hurt yourself. Now try. Make it five steps."

"No way," Dean breathes to himself. He takes slow, uneasy steps, ready to save himself from falling and/or bumping into something. It must look ridiculous how he is rowing his arms to stay upright. The feeling is comparable to getting up for a leak when being very drunk in a very dark bedroom... but at least he's wasted then and not fully conscious of his helplessness.

"Three... Four..." Sam is counting for him. "... And five."

Dean breath is coming flatter at this point. He turns his head left and right, desperate to coordinate himself in this strange, strange room - but to no avail, of course. He curls his fingers into his palms and notices they are lined with sweat. Same goes for his armpits as he pulls his arms closer to his body.

"... Sam?"

He doesn't exactly know why he says it. All he does know is that he needs Sam's hands back, the security and warmth they provide. He needs to know Sam is there, right behind him.

And Sam hums, "Yes," close enough to Dean's ear all of a sudden for Dean to feel the graze of a tip of a nose against his temple. He flinches away in a panicked instinct but melts right into the palms that offer themselves to his shoulders.

"What kind of room is this?" Dean's voice feels strained.

"Rub your feet over the floor, Dean."

"Wh-what?"

"The floor," Sam repeats. "What type of floor is this, Dean?"

Dean swallows. "I, uh." He moves his right foot, feels himself trembling in Sam's hands. They hold him tighter than before, hotter. Dean allows himself to lean heavier against Sam's chest. "Carpet? Some type of carpet? B-but... but not a... not a rug like in the living room."

"Softer or rougher?"

"Rougher," Dean shoots immediately.

"Do you need to sit down for a moment?"

"No. No, I'm good. I'm alright."

"Sure?"

"Yes."

"Okay." The kiss to his temple feels wetter than the earlier ones. Was it Sam's lips or Dean's temple that changed? "You're doing very good. I'm so proud of you, pet. Let's go to the bedroom next, okay? Or do you need to go to the bathroom?"

Dean shakes his head. "No. Bedroom. Bedroom sounds good." Anything is better than this black hole or whatever it is Sam keeps locked away here.

He forgets to count the steps up to the door and can't lean against a massive wall fast enough. While he is trying to cool down, he hears Sam locking the door back up, how keys disappear into a pocket Dean cannot distinguish from hearing alone.

Sam is back on him, heavy and good and there, and presses wide, heated kisses into Dean's hair, over the back of his neck. He swallows, sighs against golden thistles, lets his forehead kiss them. Sam's hands are all over him now. They could be more than two hands if Dean didn't know any better. Goosebumps bubble over his skin as Sam starts unbuttoning Dean's shirt. Wow. Bedroom indeed, huh. Not that Dean is complaining, not with the way Sam seems to be all ready for it.

It's an awkward stumble and definitely not graceful anymore how they make their way to what engulfs Dean in a familiar scent - Sam's bedding. The maid changes the ones in the loft every other day, but as much as Dean loves the fresh-from-the-washing-machine scent, he has grown to adore burying his face in Sam's used pillow while the man is using the shower. Now, this entire room smells just as heavenly as those sacred morning-pillows, like every aspect that is good about Sam. Dean feels like coming home, like being hugged, kissed, all while Sam is actually doing all of those things to him in reality, all while Dean's senses are robbed of his sight. Every touch by Sam is being multiplied, every drop of sweat and slick of spit discernible from what otherwise is a messy knot of impressions. It's all edging on that "too much" mark and Dean wants to see Sam (it feels like an eternity since the last glimpse), _needs_ to, so he reaches for the blindfold.

Sam is quicker and swats his hand away. "Leave it on," he mumbles into Dean's mouth, and it's so desperate and urgent that Dean doesn't dare to talk back.

"Then, th-then please, I-"

"Yeah, I've got you. I've got you."

Dean makes a pitiful sound as he is stripped of his shirt, pants, underwear. He is being sat down on what must be Sam's bed. The bedding is incredibly soft but the mattress underneath is firm and more practical, so Sam gets rid of too much fluff while Dean does his best at untying his shoes without seeing his own fingers.

When Sam is back in front of him, Dean reaches out for the fly of his jeans. "You, too, c'mon," he urges - and absolutely didn't expect this level of arousal under his fingertips. Sam actually hisses and withdraws. Dean can only gape at nothing, flushed but not nearly erect himself. No wonder, actually, since they hadn't even kissed for a full minute yet. "... Wow," he stammers.

"On your back. Across the bed, not lengthways."

Dean moves immediately at the impatient bite in Sam's voice. He hears a zipper purring and flops down on his back, chews on the inside of his cheek. Face turned to look up to where Sam must be standing (he can hear him, smell him, feel him), Dean reaches out into the same direction. Again, his hand is slapped away.

"Don't," he is being warned.

He places his arm back down on the bed and listens, waits. His ears redden some more at the obvious sounds of Sam jerking off. "You need a hand, or...?"

Sam grits, "Not today. Won't last much longer."

"What?" Dean scoffs, almost laughs. "That's been, what, five sec-"

"Shut up."

Dean's mouth closes. It's strange to be surrounded by that scent while the source is standing right in front of him, growling and untouchable. A strangled, "Oh God," is all warning he gets before Sam is spilling over his chest only a few moments later. Sam is breathing as hard as after one of his treadmill sessions. Dean frowns, opens his mouth to complain but ends up staying quiet. Probably the better choice. It's not like Sam can do much about himself right now anyway. Lying still, waiting for it to be over, interest slips away rather easily. Feels weird to have the mess cooling down on his skin. Dean shivers.

A last relieved groan - before Dean is covered in hands and mouth. The kiss is sudden and completely unexpected, the hands sliding over his body perfectly warm against his too-cool skin. Dean makes a sound around Sam's tongue and gets his raising arms pressed back into the mattress. "Just lie still," Sam tells him between kisses, "Let me take care of you."

Well, sure, if the man _insists_. Dean won't stop him. Not that he could if he does what Sam wants him to do. Under Sam's hands though, it's the easiest thing to just lay back and relax and let him work his magic. It's always magic for Dean. It doesn't bother him that much anymore that Sam has this whole "marking my territory" thing, not since Sam made a thorough shower part of the thing from the very first time on. It's relaxing now, really, to have Sam's come easing the touch of his palms. The scent is okay. A little sour. It's more intense with the blindfold on, of course, and yet not putting Dean off. On a rather honest note... he might have been conditioned here. Sam getting off means himself getting off. A happy Sam equals a grateful Sam, and a grateful Sam equals Dean getting off big time. Dean isn't exactly sure what it was that got Sam off this hard this quick - Something with the blindfold? Something Dean said or did? _Did_ he say or do something hot? - but he couldn't care less at this moment. Lie back and relax.

Kissing, rubbing Dean's chest and stomach, a twist to a nipple here and there and Dean's dick is back on board. Sam doesn't touch it for some while though, long enough in fact to grow a small itch in Dean's fingers to make a move themselves. Those fingers are so skilled though, so outstandingly familiar with the way Dean's body is working, that the waiting leaves enough sweetness to the bitterness to keep Dean pliant. Not seeing a thing in combination with not moving is an exciting mix. As if Sam really was taking complete care of him.

What a relief it is though when one of those hands finally curl around his shaft, God; it's really been time. Dean feels dizzy with how throbbing his lips are at this point from too harsh teeth and stubble. Sam still works them, still licks and kisses as if they weren't full enough yet, Dean, not red and raw enough. Dean wonders what he looks like right now. His body seizes at an especially good twist over his glans. A quick flick of nails over his right nipple. Sam hums into his mouth. Heaven.

"You look so damn good like this."

Dean would ask _Like what?_ if Sam's tongue wasn't in the way.

"Gimme a second."

And Sam leaves him alone, very hard and very alone, flushed down to his kneecaps and breathing all messed up. Dean blinks against satin, flexes his fingers against the bed sheet. The sounds aren't as anonymous here; Dean can clearly follow Sam's movements. Since he doesn't know how the room looks like in the first place it doesn't help him too much, but the opening and closing of a drawer is kind of universal, isn't it.

Steps. Sound of uncapping a bottle of some sort. Oh.

Dean's body heats up anew. Some more sweat. A wet sound or two and then Dean's jaw goes slack at the sensation of lubed up fingers around his now seriously throbbing cock. They never used something like this before and Dean suddenly feels very stupid for neglecting this kind of product. This one's not even cold. Are there types that heat up? Jesus Christ, he surely is behind in that matter.

In the back of his perception, he can hear Sam putting away the bottle, feels the mattress dipping where Sam kneels down on it now. All is pretty much limited down to where he is jerking Dean off though. Dean feels his thighs starting to tremble.

Change of hands. Dean groans, allows his head to lull to the side. It's too slow for his taste right now. He's close to the edge and wants, no, _needs_ to cross it. The lube creates a tingling sensation, a little like an allergic reaction... but without the pain. When Dean tries to raise his hips to meet the movements of Sam's hand, they are held down. He finds himself huffing in frustration and imagines Sam's mischievous little grin he likes to wear in moments like these.

"Close?" Sam wants to know.

As if he can't see that. "Uh-huh," Dean grits.

"Good." A tug on his balls. "Full as always, huh. You don't masturbate often, do you?"

Dean gives an unwilling sound. His mind is somewhere else right now, to be honest, and it sounds more like a statement than a question.

Finally, a little quicker. Dean sighs, keeps his breath in his chest halfway through. Just a little more. Just a little... Almost...

Sudden pain, pressure, something Dean didn't expect. His eyes fly open behind the blindfold but Sam's hand which is not wrapped around the base of his cock like a damn vice forces him back down along with a soothing, "Shhh-shhh-shhh." Sweat. Lots of sweat. Dean doesn't feel like shushing at all. His heart can't decide what rhythm to beat in anymore. He gasps as the pressure fades and seamlessly goes back into a slow, wet rhythm along the length of his cock. Air escapes from his lungs; all of it. He's a deflated tire.

"Let's see how long can you hold it, shall we?"

Oh, you've gotta be...! Dean feels a hand covering his mouth just when he is about to open it. His lips tremble against the calloused skin of Sam's palm as pleasure starts overtaking him once more.

"You can moan but not speak. Just relax now. I've got you."

A toe-curling good twist as that hand retreats makes Dean bid his farewell with a small sound. Something about Sam ordering him around like this is really really doing it for him. Dean likes the way his rebellion sparks up like a firework at the sheer arrogance the man has to tell him what to do... and then simply melts away. Sam praises this "melting away" with soft words, softer touches. Those fingers tickle down Dean's body, fondle a nipple until it throbs from the unfamiliar liquid. Dean licks his lip and finds traces of it from when Sam's hand was pressed down here. Definitely artificial but not uncomfortable. The hand travels deeper, deeper, deeper. Dean's thighs almost part all by themselves. All that's left is the barely-there tremble in them, but he has that under control.

Dean's stomach flips at how a lube-slick finger feels compared to a raw one, or one drenched in spit. He sucks in more air than necessary, feels wrong, flushes a deeper red down his chest at how involuntarily and shamelessly quick his ass seems to relax against the digging pressure of Sam's finger. It's been some weeks since they started with this, but... now, it's really different.

It slips in and it doesn't hurt. Not at all. Dean's bottom lip starts to quiver.

"Very good."

And then the squeeze comes again. A hurt sound from deep down Dean's chest. The finger moves inside of him, slick and easy. He feels his cock giving a faint throb despite Sam's firm grip.

"You squeeze me back here when I do that. Can you feel it? Nod or shake your head."

Dean nods. Pressure fades. Dean feels like sobbing in relief at the first stroke.

Sam's finger slides deeper and Dean can't stop it. Once his cock goes from hurting to swooning, his ass can't keep up its resistance either. He can feel himself twitching around the intruder and can't do a damn thing about it. He chokes back a sigh, shuffles the slightest bit in his position. Sam lets him.

"There you go," Dean hears. It makes him a little sick, actually, but his body is too aroused to really care. Sam sounds quite pleased right now and something about that is bringing shame back into Dean's guts, but the next "almost" wave of orgasm comes at him then. Sam squeezes and Dean sobs, seizes. Sam's finger has never been this deep before.

Everything is hot and aching and kind of dull, like close to bursting at the seams. Dean tosses his head, digs his fingers deeper into the sheets, forces his knees not to bend. Next to the obvious fapping noises, a smaller one starts appearing. He realizes it comes from where Sam is fingering him. His eyebrows draw up into the middle of his forehead.

Sam mutters, "Just a little longer," as if he knew, as if he knew _exactly_. Maybe he does. Dean wouldn't be surprised at this point. Sam seems to have a manual to some of Dean's buttons Dean himself didn't even know existed. "But you enjoy this, don't you?"

Dean listens only half-heartedly. His head turns again, Sam's hands warm between his legs, wet and warm and nice, torturous, heavenly. A strange sounds winds itself from his throat as he feels the webbing of Sam's fingers bumping against him.

"I think you do," Sam muses. While the middle one is buried, he curls the other ones. He can press in deeper like that, and Dean holds his breath. "I think you _like_ not touching yourself. Not letting yourself come." The finger twists. "That's called 'chastity', Dean. Ever heard of that? 'Chastity'."

Everything is spinning. Dean smells things that aren't there, smells greasy hair and day-old sheets washed with a once familiar detergent, smells Sam and the lube and wood and dust and-

His body arches off the bed on the next squeeze. "Shhh," Sam hums again, pointedly soft and low and gentle, so very different from how he is hurting Dean, from how fast he is fucking his finger in and out of his ass, as if Dean could take it, as if it was the most usual thing in the world. Dean sobs again, sobs harder at a flick of tongue over the very tip of his dick which must be a pitiful shade of red by now.

"Oh, look at you. Poor thing."

He would if he could. He'd hump his hips, would pull his knees to his stomach, would curl in and cry. But he can't. He mustn't. He moans.

Sweet kisses are pressed to his slit. He might go insane and his ass is on fire since God knows when. Everything tingles because of the lube, is hyper-aware, swollen, so so ready, why can't he just-

"I am going to count now, Dean. At five, you may come."

The finger digs into him and Dean can barely feel it. He is scared and so so close, five, Sam will count to five and then it can finally stop, then he can finally come. Dean actually misses the first two numbers in favor of repeating his messy mantra to himself.

"Three."

Dean gasps but Sam's hand is quicker. He swallows a moan and around a lump. Something in the back of his head tells him to pull down the blindfold, to check on his cock, oh god, Sam is surely hurting him; is this even healthy anymore? But his arms are lead and tucked tight against his body. Sam told him to stay still. Listen to Sam. Sam knows what he is doing. Breathe.

"Four."

Almost. Almost. The friction and pressure of Sam's finger is almost pleasant in contrast to the cruel grip. Almost. He can't wait for the release, for this to stop, for finally being able to let go. Almost-

"Five."

When Sam's hand disappears, it's almost as if he put it around Dean's neck instead now with how Dean suddenly feels the need to holds his breath. His cock is jerking with the violent spurts it is finally allowed to make. Sam's knuckles press hard against his ass, keep the finger buried to the hilt while Dean is shaking apart. It feels a little like peeing, actually. The relief is so complete, so breathtaking that Dean only dares to gasp for air once Sam puts feather-like fingers around him to tease out what should be the last drops... but eventually turns out to be some more jets of come. Throughout it all, the room is completely silent except for Dean's ragged breathing, smallest whimpers of his voice and the almost inaudible squelch of Sam's finger working his ass. Almost.

Sam doesn't withdraw his hands before or while kissing Dean who opens his mouth all loose and wet, does neither have the energy nor willpower to do anything else. Sam licks more than he kisses. His tongue has a nice temperature; his lips are dry and warm. Dean feels his come cooling down on his skin, becomes aware of the sweat slicking him. The by far loudest noise now comes from where Sam is still sliding a loose fist over Dean's mostly limp dick. Dean is still trembling. The finger is still tucked in deep.

Sam must feel it when Dean wants to speak up since he shushes him sweetly, repeats his, "I've got you," for what must be the hundredth time today. The fist stops. Dean feels cold, exposed. Sam keeps on kissing him.

The finger starts to pull back and Dean only barely succeeds in not sighing in relief. It feels terrible. It burns, more than ever, and the way out is so so much longer than he remembers the way inside. It goes on forever. He cramps up on the last fragments of inches dreading what Sam might have unearthed this deep inside of his guts.

He has to turn his face away from Sam's kisses. Cold sweat. Swimming head. Not now. Not now.

"Shhh, it's okay." Rustling of tissues.

"Urgh." Dean cringes. He wants to curl in on himself and he wants to cry.

"No, keep lying on your back. You are fine, Dean. Just another second."

A wipe of tissue through his crack. Dean's limbs jerk as a hollow sound fills his chest.

"There you go. Very good. You did so good, pet."

He doesn't feel like it. Doesn't feel like anything. "Sam," he chokes.

Hands cradle his face, lips seal his own. Sam radiates warmth like a furnace. Dean feels those thumbs stroking under the hem of the blindfold. They must feel the tears. Dean sheds some more at the thought.

"You were wonderful," whispers Sam, kisses again. "The most wonderful. The most beautiful. Oh, Dean."

It continues for a while like this, until Sam's heat has reached down to where Dean's heart is fluttering like a weak bird. When Dean eventually lifts his arm to touch Sam's, there is nothing keeping him from doing so.

"I will take this off now, okay?"

The blindfold shifts a little. Dean's chin gives a jerk that could have wanted to grow up to a nod.

He keeps his eyes closed as the blackness makes way for something more pink. Not a bright red. The room isn't alit completely, it seems. Dean's eyelids are cool from air hitting their dampness and once he starts blinking them open very cautiously, he can barely see a thing. Contours only slowly become visible.

Sam. It's Sam's thumb that strokes his cheek, Sam's hair that filters the light, Sam's dark brown eyes glued to Dean's as if they never disappeared in the first place. How vibrant they are.

"How are you?" asks Sam.

The bedroom's curtains are pulled closed. Sunshine tries to break in from outside the floor level windows but doesn't quite make it. Dean sees a bedpost in the corner of his eye. Everything is turned down low. As if time itself had come to a halt.

When Dean says, "I'm good," he means it.

Empty. Empty is good. Relaxed and hollowed out, nothing to bump against or cut on.

Yes. Good.

There still is a subtle, throbbing pain, but it will pass. Dean knows it will. It always does.

~ 

One strand of Sam's hair curls around Dean's finger while Sam himself is curled up as well; against him like a sleepy cat. Or maybe a tiger. Proportions would match.

Things yet need to click in order. All that new information... It's overwhelming. They haven't talked during this half hour of lying in bed. Sam's bed. Sam's actual, real bed. The dark wood Dean doesn't know the name of is nothing like what he is used to from the generic white box-spring. This model here has bedposts that curl almost up to the ceiling. Heavy curtains give it a midieval-ish touch. The light is so different here, too. Trees just outside the house shield the building from the sun and as a result the room is barely alit in the middle of the day.

It's cozy. Different, but cozy. Dean is trying to make a sense out of this and that, out of whatever happens to come to his mind about this new side of his lover. His thoughts trail off more often than not. It's hard to concentrate and even harder to make serious conclusions. Too many details. Too many impressions. Dean is still strung out from sex.

There is something he skips over at every pass though. It's remarkable, important and he _knows_ , but it just won't come to him. So, while softly stroking Sam's hair, he asks in his semi slumber, "What was that strange room about though?"

A tired sound. They are both close to falling asleep. Then, and Sam really sounds as if he had been out, "I thought you said it was 'nice'?"

"Yeah..." The curl of hair loosens, tightens, loosens. "... but strange as well. Dunno. It's hard to describe."

"Sleep," Sam groans.

"I'm not tired," Dean lies. "I wanna know. C'mon, tell me."

A teasing pull makes Sam scrounge up his face. Dean can feel it against his chest. There's a sound, too, and way too adorable for a grown man.

Dean snickers. "I bet it's your secret hobby room or somethin'." Loose, tight, loose, tight. In a moment of hilarity, Dean grins to himself. "The kind with leather leashes and handcuffs dangling from the walls."

No reply. Dean's fingers play. Sam's breathing stays calm.

"'Handcuffs'," Sam parrots eventually with his voice all gruff. "Very funny."

A humored snort from Dean. Sam mirrors that as well.

The bed barely makes a sound at Sam's moves. Dean lets himself get kissed and closes his eyes at the gentleness he receives. He sighs and runs his fingers through Sam's hair while Sam remains lingering in the kiss, takes it down and across Dean's chin.

"I'm hungry," the man states with a playful nip at Dean's skin. It's a plain tone, as if his mind was somewhere else. Big hands run and span over Dean's chest. Sam is his blanket.

"Should we order something?" Dean hums.

"No." Stubble, hair. Dean feels dimples against his cheek. "Let me cook for you."

Sam says he knows just the right thing for a day like this, pet, and seats Dean in the front row of this very private cooking show. He gave Dean one of his robes and threw on his clothes from earlier underneath the apron. Not in a million years would Dean mock him for said apron, not with how stunning Sam looks in it.

This is a recipe from Sam's favorite nanny, Karina Eldora, and Dean doesn't miss out on the added gleam in Sam's eyes when he pronounces the name like an eager little boy. Karina Eldora had been a strict but big-hearted woman in her late forties and Sam had been a lonely boy at the age of eight. It was love at third sight (the first two were rather loud and unpleasant as they included broken glass and the very same ball both times) and Sam puts a hand above his heart when he looks up to a framed picture that shows Sam in her lap, the two of them peeling potatoes. She wasn't the official cook but wrinkled her nose at Mrs. Wesson's poor choice of color in her young son's diet. As a Puerto Rican woman she knew better, of course, and Sam celebrates her interpretation of arroz con gandules like a joyful mass. Dean pities the women who had the misfortune of being employed after Karina Eldora.

Dean states that it must have been tough to grow up being handed from stranger to stranger. He thinks of himself and Joanne in the loving care of their - still married up to this day, mind you - parents and how horrifying it must be for a child to miss out on this sense of basic trust. Sam shrugs with his entire concentration on the pork he is handling. "Had its good sides, had its bad sides." He tosses the meat into the waiting pot. "No childhood is exactly perfect, I guess."

The meal is extraordinary. Of course it is. How could anything prepared with so much love be anything else but that? Dean can feel the oils on his tongue but soothes himself with a vague plan of a workout later in the evening, once they've gone separate ways again. For now though, he simply enjoys.

"You definitely need to cook more often," he says.

Sam wears a new smile. His "home" smile. He keeps his eyes hidden behind dropping lashes when he promises, "I will cook for you whenever you are here."

"Mmmh." Dean grins. "That's something I could definitely get used to."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Update** : Chapter 8 will come on Saturday since I will not be able to access my files or the internet on Friday. Sorry! Everything will be back to normal the following week.


	8. Chapter 8

"Hey, just to feed my curiosity..." They are both dripping with sweat. Dean almost wants to give Sam credit for speaking this controlled despite his heaving chest but then settles with an unnerved flattening of his lips. "Your celibacy-thing - what's your record?"

"Don't," Dean warns through his teeth. One drop of sweat found its way into his eye. It only burns half as bad as his shame does.

Breathless laugh. Sam opens his arms wide, ducks his head. Dimples along with raised eyebrows should be comical... but Dean really doesn't feel like laughing right now. "It's not like anybody's here to listen, dude."

A glare right through Sam's stupid, anticipating face, right across the otherwise empty workout section of their gym. Yeah. "Theirs". It's not official but the months speak another language.

"Come on," Sam urges. He audibly wipes his nose with the back of his hand, puts his hands on his hips. The smile is still there. Dean watches it with growing antipathy. "Five days? Ten? A month?"

The rowing machine keeps hissing. Elbows back. Lock the knees. "I'm not keeping track," Dean grunts under his breath. His eyes are now glued to the machine's monitor. In the corner of his vision, Sam cannot keep still. That one minute of resting is long done. Is this question really important enough to ruin a workout over it?

"You know... There are _tools_ for that."

More creases on Dean's forehead. " _What_?"

"To keep yourself from coming," Sam says. He sounds more sincere now.

Wait. _Sincere_?

"Woah." Already regretting it while he does it, Dean jams the rowing device back into starting position. If only he could reach Sam's stupid mouth with his hand. He settles for simply raising it into the air between them. "Sam - stop. Just stop."

"Why? There's nothing wrong about it."

"Sam," Dean warns again.

"We could-"

"SAM!"

He looks up at Sam. Sam looks down at him.

Dean swallows. "I- I, uh... Not here." Arm back down, eyes up front. Maybe it's not too late to pick the machine back up. His data is still right there on the screen. "Just... Let's not discuss this in public, okay? Sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell." His throat is tying up. He just wants to do his workout. This is a gym, not a bedroom, for fuck's sake.

A decisive silence before a calm, "Alright. Later, then."

Dean hears Sam striding off and hesitates another second or two before picking up his own machine's handle.

They wanted to go to Dean's after gym today anyway. It's a surprise when Sam climbs into the cab together with him but Dean doesn't say a word, prefers staring out of the window. Anticipation proceeds together with the pinkness of his ears. For the first time in a long time, he gives an actual thought about how long ago his last orgasm has been. The conclusion is: three days.

Is three days normal? It must be. It doesn't sound too unusual. Dean thinks he went with much longer periods before. A week? Hm. Definitely not impossible. His pinkie slides across his bottom lip. Dean chastises it away before he can bite the nail he knows his teeth are hungry for.

The elevator doors barely slid shut when one warm, golden-tanned arm slides around Dean's waist. One hand comes up against Sam's chest.

"Don't." A whisper, a soft frown. He doesn't actually want Sam to stop, but... "They've got cameras in here."

"Then just like this." A little more space in between them again. The "we're close to summer, folks" temperatures are holding themselves steady these days and Sam's body heat is almost too much. Dean keeps his eyes a few inches off the elevator's console. "You're thinking about it, aren't you?"

More heat. The elevator comes to a halt on his floor as he gives a timid nod.

Sam hums his approval and Dean tugs him along, simply in order to get out of the damn narrow elevator. He wants to have another shower, a blow-job and then another shower, then the fill-in on that patron he will have to deal with next week, maybe dinner and then - his bed. Nothing more, nothing less.

Key, door, wall, kissing - goosebumps. Oh. Dean feels his knees going weaker than usual, at least at a rather harmless kiss like this. The heat of his own skin is given away as Sam runs his lips across Dean's cheek to get at that sensitive spot behind his ear. Since the goosebumps are already taken today, Dean now clasps at Sam's shoulders instead. His eyes roll back. Jesus Christ. Has it really been three days already?

"Did you touch yourself after last time?"

Dean shakes his head, keeps his eyes closed. What a relief to be pushed back against the wall with the pressure of something against his crotch.

"Three days then," Sam thinks out loud.

"Is that strange? Am I strange?" The words come without much thoughts. Only so much brain capacities are available when you are being dry-humped by six feet four of Sam Wesson. Dean is holding on and grinds right back.

"No, pet." It's muffled against his neck but Dean hears it, of course hears it. Thank God. He laughs out of relief. "No, not at all." Sam's mouth and tongue come for Dean's. Dean sighs for them. "It's hot, actually."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Hungrier kisses. Dean can barely breathe, squeezed so tight between wall and man. It makes everything even better, sends his blood pulsing heavier. He can feel how his cock twitches to fullness in his slacks. A sweet laugh from Sam. "I've been thinking about it ever since it popped up, to be honest. I think it suits you. It has a lot to do with self-control."

"Heh. Sure sounds like me," Dean half-snickers, half-sighs. God, Sam's _mouth_. He wants it in every kind of way. He does indeed get it but two strong hands grab at his ass in addition, heave him off the ground. There is not much else to do but to go with it, to hold on and let Sam decide. To be fair: it has never not paid off for Dean so far.

Sam lays him out on the bed, slides down Dean's body and tugs at his belt. Dean's heart is racing at this point, especially with Sam's face so gloriously close to his dick... but Sam just smiles up at him. Shit. Dean would ask for it, he really would. This smile ends it though before Dean can even get started with it. Sam could as well be sticking his tongue out at him right now. Dean groans and drops down on his back, wipes his hands over his face.

"Not fair," he croaks.

"You said we'd talk about it later." Fingers tap tap tap up Dean's belly. "Now _is_ later."

"Okay. Sure." A heavy sigh. Dean lets his arms flop down. "About what exactly?"

Sam's smirk grows wider. Could be an optical illusion, too, since he is slowly crawling towards Dean. "About how it turns you on to put your dick on hold."

"It doeshn't turn me _on_ ," Dean tries with his lip between Sam's teeth. It is let go and Dean licks it. "It just kinda... happens."

A nip to Dean's cheek. "You know what kind of things 'just kinda happen'? Eating an entire bag of chips. Spending your kid's college fund on a sports car. Marrying some hooker in Vegas. You know - _fun_ things. 'Not jacking off' is not exactly considered 'fun', is it?"

Dean blinks for those dark eyes and feels his chest fluttering under their weight.

"Except of course," and Sam's voice is barely human here; more like a purr, like wind through treetops, "if it _is_ fun. Which is the case for you, isn't it?"

Thank god he is lying down already. Dean is not too sure if he could keep himself upright. "You said it _wasn't_ strange," he mutters, brings his hands up to fumble with the buttons of Sam's polo shirt.

Sam bumps their noses together. He hasn't stopped smiling for a second. "And I meant it. It's not as unusual as you think. There are lots of people who enjoy it. An entire peer group, actually. There's a market for this kind of thing."

"Uh... 'chastity', right?"

"Yeah. Exactly." One gentle, wet kiss for Dean. "You remember. I'm impressed."

Pinker cheeks. "I'm not a goldfish, you know."

Sam hums a laugh against Dean's lips. "Oh, you are. My beautiful, beautiful little goldfish."

More kisses smother Dean into fuzzy warmth and Sam finally grinds their hips together again. Dean feels himself getting wet in two places, both caused by Sam, and groans into his favorite mouth, puts his arms around his favorite back.

"Remember that I said there are tools for it?" Sam whispergroans between Dean's lips. "Toys. To keep this here-" Dean loses his breath under sudden, heavy weight that bears down on his genitals. "-in line."

The pressure vanishes again and Dean has to blink even though he has no intention of opening his eyes anytime in the near future. Looking into Sam's face right now seems like a suicide mission. Dean can feel his own jittering but can't think of anything in particular. All there is is Sam's voice, Sam's crotch riding Dean's, playful, soothing fingers in his hair, over his scalp.

Sam sounds about as breathless as Dean feels. "Would you like to try it?"

"Uhm," Dean chokes. His tongue takes up too much space in his mouth. He clears his throat. As he turns his head from side to side, he can feel the sweat collecting around the back of his neck. Oh dear.

"I could show one to you. How about that?"

There is a clicking noise at the back of his throat when Dean swallows spit-less. What a proposal. Dean is not sure what he should be shocked more about: Sam's enthusiasm about the situation or the fact that Sam is _prepared_ for this kind of situation. That Sam seems to be owning a tool for this kind of thing and that he hauls it around in his gym bag. Casually. Like no big deal. The same way others might carry pepper spray or a gun; "you know, just in case I happen to need it".

It's all a little fast. Sam had brought this topic up only, what, a few days ago? Dean can't remember. It was during his first visit at Sam's "real" home, right? Anyway. Way too fast. Dean's head is spinning. Yeah, sure. If he is honest, the idea _does_ turn him on. There is a certain kick to it somehow, that very same sick twist you get watching a gore-heavy movie - you shouldn't be enjoying it, but you _are_.

Maybe with Sam, it's okay to be a little twisted. Sam doesn't seem to mind. No, moreover, Sam seems to be _approving_ of it.

After a hesitating second or two, Dean gives his "yes" in the form of a nod.

Sam practically jumps off of him the very same instant. "Alright, perfect; just a- just a second. It's in my bag. Just a second." Dean hears him dashing out of the room and to the front door where they both left their gym bags.

Dean groans, rolls over to his side. His hands shield his eyes and flushed face from the cruel, cruel world. Toys. Sam is talking about sex toys. _They_ are talking about sex toys. Oh god. It's kinky. Sam is kinky. No - _Dean_ is. _Dean_ is the one with the weird... thing. His cock gives a twitch at that and Dean curls in on himself a bit tighter.

When Sam returns a few seconds later, Dean only reluctantly rolls over on his back. Sam carries a wooden box and Dean's chest tightens. Did Sam buy this for Dean in particular or did he maybe own it prior to meeting Dean? Don't sex toys usually come in cheap paper cartons and with quirky pictures? (Not that he had any experience with it but, well, you hear enough second hand knowledge through friends and coworkers.) This one looks _expensive_.

"It's not gonna bite," Sam jokes at the sight of Dean. Ha. Very funny. He gestures for Dean to scoot up the bed to sit more or less upright against the headboard. Dean swallows and watches closely how Sam's fingers undo the box's little metal clasp. The box opens with its lid facing Dean, so Dean cannot see a thing - until Sam takes the object in question out and holds it out over where their knees are almost touching.

No further movement for a while. Sam probably wants Dean to have a close look. And Dean does, yeah, sure, but he doesn't know what to think of it. It looks kind of... cruel. Metal bars. A small lock. His throat itches from the inside. He has no idea what to do with his hands.

"It's called a cock cage." Sam explains with one of Dean's favorite voices - the gentle, low one. It helps to extend Dean's perception from the uncomfortable tingle in his stomach to where the back of Sam's hand rests on top of his thigh. "They come in different shapes, sizes, materials. This here is rather modest. Good for starters."

Humiliation is back, full force. "You... sure sound like you know what you're talking about."

"Well, of course. I know a thing or two. You know I had partners before you." Sam looks up from the device, finds Dean's defeated expression - and bursts into laughter. "Dean, geez! It's not like I'm a saint or something!"

Ouch. Dean's shoulders curl slightly inwards. "Please don't tell me this was on... on somebody else's..."

"Woah, hey." Judging by the tone of Sam's voice, the man finally dropped the stupid grinning. Not that Dean would know with his eyes averted this low. Sam scoots closer, makes his voice sweeter again. "Hey, no way. Dean. Come on, look at me, alright? Hey."

Soft fingers tip Dean's chin up. He lets them but doesn't look into Sam's face until he gets a kiss.

"I would _never_." The sincerity in Sam's breath softens Dean. "I got this for you, especially and only for you. It's custom made according to your measurements. You can see the receipt if you don't believe me."

"You're- you're _insane_!" Dean chokes. New sweat along his hairline. His heart aches. "Custom made? Are you kidding me? How much was- Did you- W-wait, did you, did you _measure my dick_?!"

An innocent raise of eyebrows. "Your sleep is rather heavy after a whiskey or two."

Dean opens and closes his mouth before sinking back against the headboard of his bed. Again, he buries his face in his palms. He shakes his head. "Oh god. Oh god oh god."

"Don't be ashamed," Sam hums somewhere Dean can't see. A hand curls over his own, squeezes softly before letting go again. "I thought you'd like it, so I ordered it. I love getting you presents."

Dean groans into his hands. "But what if I _don't_ like it? You can't exactly return it! You spent so much money, and I-"

"Even if you only try it, it will be worth its expenses. I'm sure."

Another groan.

"I promise it won't hurt or anything. See, you simply slide it on and-"

"GOD, alright; I'll do it, okay?! Just stop TALKING!" Dean snatches the device out of Sam's upturned palm. Its weight and cool surface make his stomach drop very suddenly - and then revs it up like crazy. This is an honest to god thing that will go on his dick. Fuck. It looks so... small? Is he really this small?

Sam's hand is slightly damp as it settles down over Dean's. Dean looks up to find a face that is not as indifferent as it usually is. If anything, it makes Dean even more nervous. "Take it easy. Let me help you, alright?"

A small nod turns more confident with the seconds. "Okay. Yeah."

While Sam explains the cage, Dean's heart rate picks up some more. It's supposed to sit a little tight, Sam says, so that he can barely get hard. Not at all, to be exact. Sam licks his lips. His eyes turn darker as he nods towards Dean's crotch and says, "This has to be soft first, though."

Dean's eyes widen and he stares down his body. Wow. "I, uh. I didn't think I still was..."

A squeeze to Dean's thigh. "Makes it even better, if you ask me." When Dean looks up at Sam, a smile welcomes him. "I mean, what better indication could there be? You're into it. That's amazing."

Stomach and balls make somersaults. Dean grits his teeth to get rid of some of the tension inside of him. "Yeah? You think so?"

A low, "Absolutely," and a wet, deep kiss turn Dean to putty. How does Sam _do_ this? Dean can practically feel the knots in his stomach coming undone. The metal in his hands has warmed by now. His fingers trace its smooth bars while Sam's tongue does the same with Dean's teeth. Sam teases, "Kinky little goldfish," and Dean's skin crawls in the nicest way.

Dean groans. "You're not helping."

"Not really, no," Sam chuckles. That hand on the fly of his pants worms a sigh out of Dean's throat. "Do you want to get off once more before we put it on?"

Dean licks leftover spit from his upper lip, blinks lazily. "I dunno. Should I?"

Sam blinks as well and Dean beams with the heat in those eyes. "Depends on what you're going for."

Crowded in once more between Sam in front and the wall and headboard in his back, this could be their very own world. What a nice thought to have nothing to worry about but this here - Sam and him.

Sam asks, "How long do you want to keep it on?"

"I dunno," Dean breathes, licks lips again, feels his pulse in his throat. "What would you recommend? What would be safe?"

Something falls from Sam's face and is gone in the time Dean takes to blink. When Sam speaks again, it's a few seconds off. Dean almost thinks it's more quiet than before. Choked. "'Safe' you say?"

"I mean... with the cleaning and stuff, I guess it's... Isn't it unhealthy, or...?"

"God," Sam rushes, and Dean startles with how sudden there are hands around his face, a forehead bearing down against his own.

Shit. Was that a _whimper_ just now?

"Fuck, Dean. _Fuck_. You're gonna make me lose my goddamn mind." A wheezing laugh. Sam seems to tremble but before Dean can do anything about it, it's gone again, Sam's face tilted up for him to look at and there is no discomfort at all, just true, blunt lust. The darkness in Sam's eyes is deep enough for Dean to get lost in it. "A week," Sam breathes. "Seven days. How's that sound? Think you can do it?"

Halfway through his, "Yes," Dean's tongue is kissed into speechlessness.

Sam tastes like sweat. "Yeah? Definitely? Because once you're locked, _you're locked_ , pet." The harsher kind of kiss rattles their teeth. "And don't think I'll let you off the hook for some weak excuse."

Oh. "You're- _you're_ gonna keep the...?"

"Of course." Sam's eyes are gleaming. "Where would the fun be otherwise?"

Dizziness takes over. Dean's heart wants to expand and shrink at the same time. His ears are ringing and if anything as much as brushed past his cock right now, it would go off like a fountain.

Oh god.

"I told you: it's all about control."

"S-self-control," Dean chokes, is kissed on his ear. "You said _self_ -control. So I thought-"

"Well, leave it to me, then." Sam's tongue flicks over the shell of Dean's ear before he nuzzles it with his cheek. Dean can still hear perfectly fine though, but the more Sam speaks, the less Dean is fond of said ability. "Give me that control over you, Dean. Let _me_ be your self-control. Let _me_ worry. Give yourself over to me."

Sounds like a good deal, actually. No worries. No responsibility. Sam is watching out for him. Sam knows what he is doing. Sam always knows what's good for Dean. And, to be honest - in contrast to the anal topic, _this_ actually is something Dean can _definitely_ see himself enjoying. A little sick, true... but damn. Why not?

His voice feels soft in his throat, almost too soft. He hopes Sam can hear him nevertheless because he is not sure he'll get it out a second time. "I can do seven days, Sam."

Okay, Sam _must_ have heard since as soon as the words are out of Dean's mouth, he starts talking again; almost mumbling with how stressed his voice is. "Gotta be more specific, pet; seven days minus the three you already have or seven on from after one last time today, huh?"

Dean's entire body tenses with his next swallow and he feels Sam's hand on his dick even before he somehow manages to grit out his, "I don't think it'll go down anytime soon, so...!"

Once it's over (and it's over _quick_ ), Sam undresses him completely, retrieves a warm-wet washcloth and gets to work. Dean is pliant and fucked out enough to let it happen. His cheeks are still burning from the earlier situation but watching Sam bent over with nothing but concentration showing on his face definitely doesn't go by him unnoticed either.

Dean allows himself a sleepy and kind of embarrassed sound as he rubs his eyes with the knuckles of his right hand. "Hey, don't overdo it, man. You're- It's starting to hurt with the damn chafing."

With deep creases on his forehead, Sam promises, "Just another second." Those fingers are cleaning Dean more thoroughly than Dean would have thought it was necessary. But, yeah, damn. Once that thing is on him, more than a simple shower won't be possible, will it? Naked and again overcome by nervousness, Dean flushes with a new rush of sweat.

Sam straightens his back, puts the washcloth aside in favor of getting a hold of the cage. Dean's eyes follow but get distracted by the straining bulge in Sam's pants. Dean cringes. Sam didn't want to come. _Not yet_ , he had said, _he could wait_ , he had said. Dean concentrates on Sam's calm movements again.

"Okay," Sam hums. He presents what he has in his hands - an adjustable ring and the cage's body itself. "This part goes on as close to your body as possible. We put your balls through as well but don't worry, you won't feel much of that. Then we secure it, but not too tight. Tight: yeah. Hurting: no."

They slip the ring on and Dean gasps. It's not exactly painful, but... well, it's strange enough for sure. The light touches and the unusual sensations bring interest to his dick and a few harsh tugs on his sac take care of that. They try several settings until the ring fits airtight and then some. Otherwise it could be pulled off, Sam explains, "And we don't want that, do we?"

Dean makes a face. He is not so sure, but fine. It's safe, Sam said so, and Dean is confident he will be able to get through this. When he is being honest, he could say he is somewhat excited, too.

His dick looks pitiful as it is slid into the hand-warmed device and Dean cringes a little at the sight. The size is perfect, just like Sam predicted... but still. This is all very new. The most adventurous thing Dean had used up to now had been ribbed condoms. His dick likes this new situation though. Dean can feel it trying to chub up in its tight confinements and has to apply some roughness to keep it tame. Once the lock is on, there won't be a need to do that anymore, he thinks; _realizes_. His tongue presses against the roof of his mouth.

"Beautiful," Sam says. He is smiling again, almost affectionate. Dean blushes for it.

There are equally wide but tiny holes in both parts of the device. Sam threads the hoop of the lock through and ties them together like this. Dean watches with something like fascination how that thumb aligns hoop and body of lock, ready to snap it shut.

"Are you alright, Dean?"

He nods with confidence. "Yes. Go ahead." Sam must be able to feel his pulse where he's cradling Dean's junk in one of his wonderful hands. Sam has done this before. Relax. All is well. It's just a game. You are fucked up but in the end, this is just a game. There are rules, they are simple and Sam is there for you through all of it.

A moment passes. "Dean. I want you to look at me and repeat something after me. Can you do that for me, please?"

Dean looks up in one part surprise and one part submissiveness. His vision flicks back and forth between Sam's left and right eye. Both are unmoved, just as dark as before. There is this strange calmness again. It has something ultimate which makes the hairs on the back of Dean's neck stand straight. He pulls his shoulders tighter. He nods. "Okay."

"No," Sam corrects. "'Yes, sir'."

Dean grabs the bedsheets a little harder. "... Yes, sir."

"Good. Now repeat after me."

The thumb shoves the lock's hoop from side to side very slowly. Dean doesn't see the movements, but he can feel them.

"'For the next seven days, I will not touch myself. Nor will I come.'"

"For the next seven days, I will not touch myself. Nor will I come."

"'I want you, sir, to keep the key to my cock, and with this, the key to my pleasure.'"

Dean cringes. "I want you, sir, to... to keep the key to my cock, and with this, the... key to my pleasure."

"'Please don't unlock me before my time is up. I want to be good for you, sir.'" There is not one ounce of emotion in Sam's face as he speaks.

For all that it's worth, it makes Dean's chest burn hotter. God. He really _is_ fucked up, isn't he? "Please don't unlock me before my time is up. I... want to be... good for... for you, sir."

"'Please take care of me, sir.'"

"Please take care of me, sir."

"I will," Sam breathes, and just when Dean wants to open his mouth to repeat, he hears the lock clicking shut.

They stare at each other for another moment of two. A strange sensation overcomes Dean and it makes no sense. As if fire ants were caught beneath his skin, as if the room was reduced to a tiny tiny cubicle. Sam's face still is completely unmoved, watching him, checking on him; Dean can see the quick little twitches as if Sam was reading something.

Dean opens his mouth, unsure whether to say something or to gasp for air. In the end, it's neither of those things.

He _sighs_.

"Very good," he hears. "Relax. Lie down."

Dean does. Sam's hands guide him deeper into the pillows, flatter. His own skin feels slick and cold and he shivers at what he thinks was a breeze. Oh, right, he's naked. His fingers are shaking where he feels over his own stomach.

"Shhh. Everything is fine, Dean. Everything is fine."

Soft fingers wrap around one of his wrists. The contact feels good. Dean wants to ask for more but nothing will come out of his mouth.

"You're safe. Nothing can happen to you. Do you understand? Nod for me, Dean. Do you understand?"

Dean nods.

A hand cradles his cheek and he nuzzles it weakly but instantly. His chest flutters with another sigh. He feels light-headed, so he closes his eyes.

All is fine. You are fine. Everything is fine. Sam is here. Sam has got you.

"There we go."

Rustling of sheets. Sam's lips could are scorching in contrast to Dean's numb ones. With Sam's breath comes warmth, and with warmth comes sensation.

Dean's lashes flutter.

"Beautiful." Sam kisses him as if he could break apart from a touch too heavy, over and over again. That voice is not more than a mere whisper. "You're so beautiful, pet. I am so proud of you. You've never looked more beautiful than today, you know that? God, Dean."

Dean drags his eyes open when Sam's breath comes too flat, too quick. While he is still blinking and trying to make out more than a foggy mess, Sam tugs Dean's hand down his own stomach.

"Here. Feel it?"

Dean's fingertips brush smooth stainless steel where there usually is nothing but warm, soft skin. His lip trembles and Sam kisses it.

"So pretty," Sam whispers, drags Dean's fingers along, "and all _mine_."

Blood wants to go where Sam's and his own fingers are running along. Dean never paid much attention to the procedure; it never was something special. Now, he is aware of every beat of his heart, every constriction of his blood vessels. He dares to look down his body and finds his cock trying to stir, can _feel_ it, too. Nothing happens.

Dean's eyes fall closed once more. He's bursting and horribly empty all at once. His stomach hurts with how hard it is churning.

Sam's mouth brings salvation in the form of heat and Dean melts deeper into the bed, under a gentle hand that discards his own on top of his belly, right next to his navel. Then, it roams. Up his chest, back down, close to his locked up cock but not quite touching it; down his thigh.

"You think we could play for a bit now? Or would you like to rest some more?" A low whisper, almost desperate. It produces butterflies in both Dean's stomach and between his legs.

"I'm fine," he breathes. As a proof, he cranes his neck for the next kiss, brings his hand down on Sam's forearm that just won't rest. Wherever Sam touches him, Dean feels lit on fire.

Sam's response contains a deep growl and the unmistakable undoing of a zipper. "Thank god."

Dean's eyes shoot open with how suddenly Sam climbs on top of him on all fours, but sweet, urgent shushes and warm hands press him back down. The weight and heat of Sam's body is all Dean needs, really, and he gets all of it and then some with sloppy kisses to his mouth and a rut of rock-hard cock against and into the softness of his lower belly. Dean's groan comes from somewhere between reproof, lack of air and pleasure. The rhythm is slow but deep. It almost hurts. If he didn't know Sam was only seconds away from coming, he would tell him to stop. For a moment or two though he can definitely endure it. Sam certainly earned this.

Everything shifts once more when Sam groans and gets up to his knees. He's already coming and Dean watches thick stripe after stripe of come splattering across his lower body. Sam's cock looks almost painfully hard where he holds it squeezed in his hand, wrings and wrings until the nearly purple head has nothing left to spill. Dean swallows at the seemingly involuntary tremors going through Sam's body. Something turns his mouth sour and it takes a few moments to identify it as melancholia. Damn. For the upcoming week, Sam will be the only one of them getting off, right? No discussion, no nothing. It probably says a lot about him that his heart double-pumps at that thought.

Dean's eyebrows furrow. "You... you got it dirty."

"Huh?" Sam is still catching his breath. His neck is sweaty where he has offered it to the air.

"My... the _cage_ ," Dean mutters. He runs his fingers over it. How strange it feels.

"Oh, you'll be fine," Sam assures, wipes some sweat from his forehead and his hair out of the way. "Just a quick shower before it's dried." And with that, Sam drops down next to Dean. Still panting, he gestures somewhere he thinks the door must be. "You go ahead. Just gimme another- another second. I'll be right with you."

Slightly helpless but eager to get clean, Dean leaves for the shower. First things first, he directs the jet of water right where the metal hugs him tight. Gotta get at it before it's dried. Makes sense. Dean wonders if a thin brush (maybe an unused toothbrush?) could be used as well. He makes a face at the thought of seven entire days without cleaning himself the way he is used to.

Sam joins him a few minutes later and even though Dean is practically clean by now, he stays. Sweet kisses and skillful hands are always good reasons to stay. Dean lets them soap him up once more. Slippery skin on slippery skin is quite priceless, so his cock pulses with the need to fill. With nowhere else to go, the blood flushes right up into Dean's cheeks. He makes a small, frustrated sound into the depths of Sam's mouth.

"What's the matter, darling?"

"Nothing."

Dean wills his eyes to keep shut at the sound of a huffed laughter. He tries to keep kissing Sam, but the man wrenches himself free. "Already having troubles?"

A brush along his locked-up member makes Dean glare through the stream of water. The guy has every right to talk big now, huh.

The laugh dies down and leaves a sheepish sneer. Dean digs his thumbs into those damn dimples as a revenge.

They don't disappear. "Amazing, isn't it?" It sounds excited, exhilarated; only a little whisper, like a secret. Their secret. _Is_ their secret.

For his answer, Dean pulls his lover down until he can reach his mouth.


	9. Chapter 9

"Come on, let me see it." Sam wears his grin like his best Sunday suit. Oh, Sunday. It's still such a long way to go until Sunday.

"You're obsessed," Dean accuses with a pout, but his grumpiness is no match for Sam's excitement. Is it the fact that he cannot come which turns Dean so much hornier or is Sam doing things differently? Dean cannot tell. Sam probably wouldn't answer truthfully if he asked.

Sam undresses him with his tongue somewhere around Dean's tonsils. "Maybe I am," he mutters against Dean's lips and with his fingers fumbling with the fly of Dean's pants, "but can you blame me, huh? God, I can barely see straight once I start thinking about it. About you. About your pretty cock all locked up for me."

A harsh tug and Dean is naked from the waist down, right down to the seams of his socks somewhere halfway up his calves. He doesn't really mind, simply tries to take his mind of the constant _thump thump thump_ between his legs. He groans because it's frustrating and because when Sam shoves Dean's hand against his crotch, Sam's cock is all hard and hot and nowhere near ill-kept. It's definitely not an illusion that they are getting it on on a more frequent basis ever since... well. Ever since Dean is not "getting" anything.

It probably says a lot about Dean that he enjoys every unnerving second of it.

"Touch me, please. Wrap your hand around it." A filthy groan when Dean obeys. "Fuck yeah. Just like that."

Dean watches the tremors in Sam's face as he jerks him off steady and firm, just like he knows Sam likes it. He barely listens to Sam anymore in these moments and Dean kind of wishes it was because of Sam's lack of talent in that department. But no. Not at all. Dean assumes that if he listened, actually _listened_ to every dirty word from that damn heavenly mouth, he might break down crying with how riled up it would make him. The fact leaves the kind of taste Dean loves sucking from his own tongue until his brain is dizzy with it.

Since Dean cannot get hard, Sam's dick seems to make double efforts to compensate in its place. They already did it once this morning, then again after gym. And now, four hours in some sports bar with a game plus a few beers and a cab ride to Sam's (conveniently close to the city's center) loft later, Sam gets his third round of the day. Which is day three. _Only day three_. Dean wants to scratch his eyes out.

"How are you this _wet_ again?" Dean's palm wipes over the already precome-slick tip. Just for good measure (and hopefully in order to speed things up a little bit), he stacks his second hand right underneath the first. Sam's cock is long enough to make that possible and still leave some room, which is simply unfair.

"Your fault," Sam pantsneerchuckles, licks into Dean's mouth, across his bottom lip, down Dean's neck.

"No, please, come on." Dean tries to curl in on himself but is crowded upright against the wall in his back, makes a face and then grits his teeth to hold back a moan. "Don't, I can't, Sam. Only you, okay? Only you."

An unwilling sound from somewhere around his collarbones has Dean close to sobbing. He moves his hands faster but whimpers with betrayal as Sam makes short work of the top half of his button-down.

There are no words for how it feels to have his nipples sucked at with that damn cage on his cock. Sam _might_ know the words but Dean never seems to remember them afterwards. He knows his mouth is moving, sure, but whatever he is mumbling, it has nothing to do with consciousness. Dean guesses it must be somewhere along the lines of "please" and "stop" and "fuck". It could as well be another language though since Sam does listen about as carefully to him as it is the case the other way around.

By the time Sam's mouth returns north, Dean's chest is slippery with spit and his nervous system about to break down at those tugs to his already aching nipples. Dean complains louder which only earns him more open-mouthed kisses and the reminder of a wall up against his back. Sam corners him in even closer, humps up into the almost-circles of Dean's fingers. The lock gets jostled on every other thrust, reminds Dean of his self-inflicted fate and the thrill about the insanity of all of this actually taking place.

A sudden bite of pain forces a yelp from Dean's throat.

The sound startles himself and he opens his eyes wide, stares up at Sam who is looking down at him with his hair all wild, his mouth all kissed.

A few shocked seconds pass.

Sam brings four of his fingers down on Dean's nipple again and Dean honest to god _wails_.

"FUCK, what-"

Again.

The pain is breathtaking. Dean doesn't understand why this is happening. Tears sting in Dean's eyes all while Sam looks at him with something like serenity.

Same fingers, other side of chest.

Dean chokes back whatever sound wants to escape from his mouth.

Sam's lashes come down and lift up again. Once. All slow. All calm.

"Your hands, pet. Continue."

Dean flinches, but a moment too long passes without another slap. He swallows, picks up his lost rhythm on Sam's dick. He almost dares to sigh in relief, but-

 _Thwack_.

"That's it."

 _Thwack_.

"Keep going."

 _Thwack_.

Dean does. Dean tries to see clear through the flashes of pain and his tears. Dean gets kissed in between the hits. Left. Kiss. Right. Kiss. Left. Kiss. Right. Kiss.

Dean has no concept of how long it's going on. Every hit is too much but they don't stop coming. Nobody speaks. All sound is Dean's breath rumbling somewhere hidden in his throat, the slick slide of hands on cock, the clap of another hit.

At some undefined point, his knees are going weak. Chin and arms and thighs begin to tremble.

Suddenly, Dean is unable to take another single bit of pain.

" _Sam_ ," he croaks.

Sam's come shoots against Dean's still buttoned shirt, flows down the clasp of his hands, his wrists. As it runs down his treasure trail and the ridges of the cage, Dean's body is still strung like a bow in precaution for the next blow - which doesn't come.

Dean can see Sam's still raised hand in the corner of his vision. In its middle though, there is Sam. Nothing but Sam.

Sam who barely moved a facial muscle ever since he started letting loose on Dean's chest.

Sam who just hit him. Repeatedly.

"Check your cock," Dean hears.

The words don't make much sense but Dean is not in control of his body anymore. He peels one of his hands from Sam's dick and reaches between his legs. The second one follows when he feels-

"Are you dripping, pet?"

Yes. Yes, he is. "Wha-"

"Shhh."

Dean presses his lips shut.

Sam's hand vanishes. Dean feels it swiping over the inside of his thigh. Then it's gone again.

"Do you see this?"

Sam's finger is glistening in the little light there is from the lone lamp somewhere down the corridor of Sam's loft.

Dean feels himself taking a breath.

" _This_."

It is smeared across the corner of Dean's mouth, over his bottom lip, and Sam's face is as unmoved as ever.

"This here, Dean, is why you can trust me."

They are breathing the same air. Sam's arm sinks down and away. Once it's completely lowered, the entire atmosphere of the room seems to change, and suddenly Dean is wrapped in Sam's arms, pressed to Sam's chest tight enough to forget about his own shaking.

There is moving, a shower, clean set of clothes.

Sam. Sam, laying Dean out on his bed. Sam, pulling the covers over the two of them. Sam, kissing him on the forehead and telling him, "Sleep," as he turns off the light.

Dean closes his eyes. Darkness swallows him immediately.

~ 

Coffee and toast is waiting for Dean. He peers over where Sam is sitting with today's newspaper in front of him, chewing and reading. Just another usual morning. Dean steadies himself before he makes his way to the table and eventually has a seat. When he isn't addressed, he helps himself to food. Not like he had any appetite though. It just seems like the normal thing to do.

Rustling of newspaper. "Would you like to say something?"

The butter knife comes to a halt in mid-air. Dean keeps his eyes on his toast. Some seconds pass before he decides for, "You hit me."

More rustling. Then silence.

Eyes on his toast. Oh. He should get a manicure sometimes soon. "... Why did you hit me, Sam?"

No rustling. Maybe Sam put the newspaper down. Clinking of porcelain, a sipping, a swallowing. Porcelain on tabletop. "I wasn't 'hitting' you." Rustling. "It's called 'spanking'. And you certainly enjoyed it."

A muscle between his eyebrows feels tight. Is he frowning? "What... I don't..."

"Please speak up. I can hardly hear you."

Louder, and Dean raises his eyes now when he says, "I didn't like it."

Their eyes meet over the newspaper. Sam's eyebrows are lifted. As if in mockery.

"I _didn't_ ," Dean insists, now definitely frowning, "and you were scaring the shit out of me, Sam!"

Dean imagines hearing a soft snort of laughter.

Dean's stomach boils.

"Now don't be ridiculous."

With a mouth full of words Dean doesn't know how to say out loud, he looks back down to his plate. His perfectly browned toast. The shine of melting butter. His body decides that he will not eat this food.

"Hey." Rustling again. "Hey, come on, look at me. Dean, please."

Dean listens at the "please". Dean looks up at the "please".

The newspaper is gone. Sam is there. Freshly shaved, perfect hair, tie already tied, soft, brown eyes. A gentle line forms where his eyebrows seem to want to rush together but don't quite make it. Sam's mouth is indecisive between smiling and not smiling. Between worry and amusement.

Dean's stomach ties up.

"I'm sorry," one of Sam's softest voices whispers across the table. "I had a feeling you would like it. And your reaction was, uh." A pause for a chuckle, a scratch to a dimple. Sweet fall of lashes. Enter: smirk. "It was quite... explicit."

Dean doesn't think his face is showing any emotion at all. He blinks because his eyes tell him to.

"You remember you were leaking, right? Despite the cage?" Sam gets up to clean up his finished breakfast. He continues speaking as he walks to kitchen and back. His tone is cheering, carefree. It sounds empty in the wide space of the rooms. "You know, if it hadn't been on, you probably would have come. Now correct me if I'm wrong, but getting an orgasm from something generally means someone _enjoys_ said something. Uh, anyway, Dean; did I leave my suitcase over there? John will be here any minute now. Ah, my jacket."

Dean swings to the side with the impact of a kiss to his temple. He doesn't pull away but doesn't feel like turning his head to look at Sam either.

A strong hand is rubbing his shoulder. "Now don't sweat it, okay? A little masochism never hurt anyone. Ah, haha! See what I did there?"

 _I'm not_ , Dean wants to say. His lips won't move. The sentence is too indecisive, something tells him. Is he not a _masochist_ or is he not _ashamed_? His chest trembles with a draught of air, and Dean uses it to sigh, to turn his head. Away.

Another kiss. "I'll make it up to you later, alright? Would you like to try that new fancy raw vegan place downtown? I'll see if I can get us a table for eight PM. Then we can talk it out and you can stop sulking."

Deeper frown, turn around. "I'm n-" Surprise-kiss on the lips. Sam tastes like strawberry jam and Dean wants to hurl. "Eight. Okay."

"Excellent," Sam beams.

When Sam is halfway done with shrugging his suit jacket on, Dean opens his mouth once more, apparently prominently enough for Sam to raise his head and look over at him.

Another short hesitation. Dean's forefinger hovers over the tabletop. "It's, uh. You... you said I was... That you... had a feeling I would like it."

Unimpressed expression. More buttons. "Yeah? And?"

Half-blink, no licking of lips. "How did... What..."

Dean ends up not finishing his sentence. There doesn't seem to be a right way to do it. Sam drops his arms and sighs in pity, makes a matching face. A sorry smile. Click of tongue, shrug.

"Some people just look the type, Dean."

Dean thinks he says, "Oh." Dean thinks he nods. Dean sits back against his chair and looks into his still empty cup.

"Okay. Talk to you later, alright? Now eat up. See you tonight at the latest. I'll send John to pick you up."

Steps, door, steps.

The toast goes straight into the bin.

~ 

It had been strange on Monday. To go to work, that is. It's Thursday today and a little better. If anyone would have told Dean a few months ago that he would soon be sitting in his office dressed in suit and sex toy, he couldn't have brought up enough patience to even roll his eyes at that person. And now he's here. Strange to put it together in his mind like this, but it's how it is. He said yes. It's his responsibility. He knew he wouldn't be able to take it off for work. Maybe just another reason to say yes. He should eat. Has he eaten anything yet? It doesn't feel like it.

He gets up for the cafeteria and should be aware of the odd sensation of the cage moving along with him. There was practicing in front of his mirror; many hours, lots of sweat, lots of encouragement from Sam. A lot of, "No, Dean, you really can't see a thing." His thing. His caged thing. The obscenity he carries along with himself, his dirty little secret. Theirs. ... No. Dean's, really. Sam doesn't have a lock on his dick. It's all Dean.

Soft sandwich. Mayonnaise and cucumber. If he had the energy and will to chew, he would have given everything to get something else. So many "ifs" today. Dean stands in his office with his forehead resting against the window. Alone. Chewing. The bread sticks to the roof of his mouth. He will wash it down with water as soon as he found the courage to move again.

_Some people look the type._

The sentence won't leave Dean's head. _The type_ , Sam had said. Dean wonders what type Sam means, what type Dean is. If Dean is anything at all. If. There it is again. Dean sighs.

_The type who gets off on being hurt._

Maybe.

_The type who attracts people who like hurting them._

Maybe.

_The type who overreacts and thinks too much._

Most definitely.

Gym after work, fresh shirt, same suit. John doesn't make conversation, as always. There is a distant curiosity to ask just how much the man knows about Sam. Dean wonders if they talk when he is not here, about what, about whom. There is no denying it that John knows about their affair. If John thinks of him as someone despicable? Scum. A little fish. Just another pretty face. Just another fuck for his boss. Dean lets his head loll against the window. His body is numb. He thinks of nothing.

"Hey," Sam says. _Hey_. Wears a sheepish little smile and was at the hairdresser's today, is gorgeous and smells good enough for a ten mile radius and brushes his warm warm warm hand over Dean's shoulder and last night slapped him hard enough for Dean to still feel it almost twenty-four hours later. The sensation comes back at the touch of Sam's skin. Yeah. That's what his body is granting him. Dean thinks he flinches but sits down nevertheless. He also thinks he sees Sam's eyes twitch. But that could be imaginary. Other people _pay_ for outer body experiences, Dean reminds himself, and opens the menu with fake smile and fake enthusiasm.

Besides from "hey", they talk some more. Not too much. Not too little. Dean assesses it's an okay amount. A normal amount for two people having dinner together and talking about the ups and downs of their days. Sam says something funny and bang, Dean laughs. It's easy. His hunger allows most of the ordered food to go where it's destined to go and Dean is relieved. It's all going very fine.

In a gesture of concern, Sam looks him over and informs, "You don't look too good. Everything alright?"

Dean thinks he laughs. He can feel his mouth opening and closing, feels his chest and stomach tighten and loosen in what must be a burst of well-played, bulletproof laughter.

Then, nothing.

Next thing he knows is that he blinks and Sam's mouth is moving. Or someone's mouth. That's not such a clear detail. But Sam just sat where this mouth is sitting, right? It has to be Sam's, then.

Dean can't feel his face.

Someone says, "Actually, I don't feel too good," and the words end in icyhot showers down Dean's spine. As if someone emptied a pot of boiling water on him. His.

 _He_ is the one speaking.

Things happen both slow and fast at once and then Dean is in a car, in Sam's arms, and the world is rocking like a giant boat or maybe a crib and Dean's skin tingles with sudden sparks of blood circulation. Pressed so close against Sam and his own clothes, Dean's chest stings. Sudden sweat, moving mouth. Did Sam pay their bill? How big was the tip? Did Dean throw up? Sam repeats nonsense right back, probably doesn't understand what Dean is saying.

Stop and go, stairs and stairs and stairs, dark bedroom, a hand on Dean's forehead. He sighs for its warmth and feels his eyelids flutter.

"I'll be right back, alright? Don't move, you hear me?"

"Yes," Dean sighs, relieved and sweet and tired.

Next thing he knows is that he is waking up.

He remembers this room, he realizes in silent observation. He has been here before. More seconds in consciousness bring clarity. Soft music is playing from the living room down the corridor with grandmother-wallpaper and Sam is next to him, wearing glasses while reading a book with his back propped up against the bed's headboard.

What a beautiful man, Dean thinks to himself.

He shuffles to turn to his side and thus gets Sam's immediate attention. "Hey. _Hey_." Glasses and book are gone and Dean's face is cradled, inspected from up close. There is worry and Sam looks too old, too sincere. "How are you?"

"I'm good," Dean hums. He gets a kiss for it, more touches to his face. Sam is feeling his forehead for a fever. "Did I throw up?"

"No." Sam shakes his head, frowns a little harder before allowing his expression to finally relax when he cannot find anything wrong with Dean. Still in his clothes from earlier, Dean feels exhausted but at least warm. "You were scaring me back there," Sam whispers into Dean's hair as he holds him even closer, long arms around Dean's neck.

"What happened?" Dean wants to know. Sam explains the apathy, the glassy look in Dean's eyes, the inability to speak. It _does_ sound scary. "But I didn't throw up?"

"No, but- but _that's_ what you're worried about? You could barely _walk_ , Dean!"

"That's different," Dean insists, and Sam kisses his mouth. Sam probably wouldn't kiss him if Dean threw up earlier, so Dean sighs and moves along.

Thumbs over his cheekbones, nose along his upper lip, up his cheek where those thumbs aren't. "What would be so horrible about that?"

"I hate it," Dean mutters, kisses. "It's the worst. I can't stop it when it starts, and I can't tell how long or, or how much, and... It's. I just don't..."

"You don't want to lose control like that," Sam completes.

Dean opens his eyes wide then. He looks at Sam looking at him with something like anticipation. "... Yes, actually." He repeats the words in his head. _Losing control._

"I am so sorry for last night, Dean."

Like a punch to Dean's stomach. Sam's thumbs are circling over his skin, lips are mapping out Dean's face, and somehow he is still breathing.

"I shouldn't have. Not like that. I got carried away. I was so sure you'd like it and everything was just so... so...! I wasn't in control, I slipped away. It shouldn't have happened like it happened and I see that now." The words come rushing with urgency, sincere regret, along with airy kisses that are not much more but brushes of lips. It's a good distraction from the uneasiness in Dean's stomach. "I've thought about it all day. About you. About us. About what you need and what _I_ need, and I see now that I was reckless. Please don't be mad at me, I promise I will take care of you better from now on, okay? I just want to make you feel good. I never wanted to hurt you. I promise I can make it good, Dean, I promise; you gotta trust me with this. Don't you trust me, Dean?"

"Of course I do," and it's warm here, beneath the covers with bedding and Sam and clothes, Sam's breath and hands on Dean's skin. He feels like crying, like flying. He fumbles for Sam's shirt, the soft cotton of it, and its touch to his fingertips is a dream come true.

"Yeah," Sam breathes, mouth still kissing. "Yeah, you can trust me, Dean. Leave it to me. I can make it so much easier for you, I can make it good and easy. As long as you trust me, everything will be safe and easy, just like you need it. I will be what you need. I will _give_ you what you need."

Dean keeps his eyes closed that night. There is no need to see Sam when he's so clearly, inevitably here with him, in his arms, on his mouth, in his heart. The only moment they let go of each other is a half-turn from Sam in order to get to the lamp's light switch, and then Dean has him back.

~ 

A tingling sensation at the end of Dean's spine. Another in the nape of his neck, in the groove where shoulder connects to neck. His eyelids flutter and he sighs, stretches with it, feels resistance against his back. A wave of warmth. Dean feels himself gasping - and pulls his knee closer to his body to give Sam's fingers more room.

The suction on his neck decreases, makes way for spit-cold throbs and an appreciative hum. Sam doesn't say a word, just pushes his warmwetslick finger into Dean's ass and his other hand into Dean's hair.

Trapped in its confinements, his dick gives a weak protest. He can feel his balls throbbing, his skin lighting up. Sam hasn't done this for quite a while now. Days. Even prior to the cage. Dean tries to find a reason to dislike that it's being picked up again - but comes away with empty hands. His hips tilt back, push his ass out. Sam's lap is right there, naked and warm, smooth skin. Dean swallows around a lump in his throat as Sam's mouth kisses along his shoulder, as Sam's cock gives a faint nudge against his ass cheek.

He is flushing with more than embarrassment, yeah, he _knows_ , but it's nice and warm and comfy, and Sam's finger slips in and out of him as if it was the easiest thing, slick and nice and oh, all that blood really makes him dread the cage now. His chest comes awake with the almost familiar sting, now faded to something a little less painful. A numb throb, just like his nape where Sam sucked his skin silly. The hand in his hair is scratching him absently, rubbing, petting. Only when Dean sinks into the pillow, he realizes he has been holding some tension in his body. Sam must have felt it, too, because now he pushes his finger deeper, shuffles closer to Dean's back. Dean gives a faint moan, earns wet kisses to the back of his neck, nuzzles the pillow. His pillow. Theirs.

It goes on for a while, the fingering and the kissing, and Dean eventually is out of it enough to shove a hand down to his cock before remembering why it is throbbing so pathetically. "Oh," he mutters as if he was sorry, just a tiny something to go along with the cautious taps of his fingers along the smooth metal bars. The gaps are not wide enough to get as much as the tip of a finger in between. Dean wraps his palm around the entire girth and takes a shuddering breath. The only occasions during which he had touched himself these past few days had been for the purpose of cleaning. He can't even piss standing up now. It's not too much of a bother, not really, but it suddenly hits him how uncomplicated the acceptation passed him by, how little of a problem it is for him to ignore his genitals. A flash of shame, outrage - before it's replaced by sheer exhilaration.

Warm liquid finds his fingertips just shortly before Sam's finger nudges deep, changes angle a bit, and the shy drop becomes a flow, hair-thin but steady. Dean holds his breath, eyes wide and open and directed at nothing, Sam's mouth on his neck. His hand squeezes experimentally, uselessly, and lock and cage make a sound as they move against each other.

He presses his ass into Sam's hand, teasing the last inch or so inside. Sam keeps himself there, as deep as it will go, and just curls, uncurls, bends left and right, up and down. A slow retreat, an even softer push back in. Dean sighs and closes his eyes again.

Sam lets go of him eventually, has a box of tissues ready and cleans his hand with highly appreciated commitment before rolling Dean on his back, himself on top. Lazy kisses that are morning-sour taste good with Sam, here, now. Dean is aware of the wetness in his crack, somewhere below and behind his caged cock. Sam rubs himself over Dean's pelvis, nowhere near orgasm, no, but also long beyond first timid, filling twitches. Perfect. Ready. Aroused. Dean groans because Sam is heavy and this is only day five, early and just-started day five-

His eyes fly open. "Shit," he gasps, hands on Sam's shoulders and chest in a heartbeat, elbows scrambling for support. "It's Friday, it's- Sam, w-we gotta, w-work, what- how, wh-what time is it?!"

Initial shock turns into laughter, wide eyes into crow's feet and thick lashes. Dean is angry before Sam kisses him and pushes him back down, but then everything goes light when he is told not to worry, pet, that everything is alright and taken care of. Confusion, doubt, and Sam's eyebrows knit together as he suggests showing Dean the confirmation mail. He's got it on his phone, right here, see? And Dean's eyes flicker over the text and after another burst of air from his throat, he lets himself fall on his back again.

Forearms shield his eyes and he wills his heart to slow down. One voice is happy that they are staying at home today, says that it didn't want to get up and to boring work anyway, and another one whispers that _it happened again, Dean_ ; can't you see what is going on?

"I thought a long weekend would do us good. Especially in your current... state."

Dean feels lips smirking against his skin, lets his arms be kissed and makes a face as the enthusiastic, horny thing in his head squeals with joy.

A deep, deep noise, somewhere between a sigh and a moan, and Sam mutters, "Haven't had you to myself at all ever since we put it on, pet. Always in a rush. Wanna take my time with you, the way you deserve. Especially since you were so _good_."

Sam manages to sneak a kiss to Dean's chin, travels down the line of his throat until the still-there shirt gets in the way. He shoves that up while he shoves his cock against Dean's hip.

"No complaining at all, no asking for anything... Such a good boy for me."

Dean checked in the mirror ever since last morning, and there are no visible traces of Sam's onslaught. But fuck, he can _feel_ it. Raw and sensitive, Sam's breath is more than enough to send his nipples hard and aching.

A flick of tongue and the inside of Dean's thigh turns sticky-wet.

"And good boys get their rewards, as we all know. Don't they, Dean?"

Dean groans his consent.


	10. Chapter 10

By late Saturday afternoon, Dean is sure he died and left his body behind at some point he can't remember. He is a sorry puddle of himself, sated and on the edge at the same time, warm, warm, always warm because Sam's hands are always there and because his stomach is full all the time and the summer is creeping through the stone walls of the building, through glass and right through his naked skin. They don't even bother to put clothes on him anymore.

Sam cooks for him and plays music for him, gives him all kinds of massages Dean didn't even know the man was capable of. And so how could Dean ever say no to those puppy-dog eyes when they blink open from in front of the sofa he is sprawling on, when Sam asks with his voice all soft and his eyes all dreamy if Dean would like to put on the blindfold again? Everything is black and warm, the suede against his skin the smoothest hug he could imagine, and Sam shoves his cock deep and deeper into Dean's throat until he can't breathe or move - and everything is perfect.

Dean is still swallowing when Sam rearranges their bodies as easy as if Dean didn't weigh anything. He finds himself with his ass hanging off the sofa, blind and with his hands sprawled loose and useless, and Sam fingers him with their tongues in each other's mouths until Dean's precome is pooling in Sam's palm.

Sam asks, "Did you ever get an enema done?"

"Uh-huh," slurs Dean, or at least something along the lines of that.

Pause. "How? When?"

"Dunno. It helps with fasts." A loose grin, probably. "Detox. Good stuff."

Slightly longer pause. Dean starts to crane his neck for more kisses just when Sam speaks again. "Did you like it?"

What a question. Dean splutters his laugh and sounds hilarious. Sam is right in front of him so it's easy to find the collar of his shirt without seeing a thing. "Duh, genius, what do _you_ think? You get a hose up your ass; it's not exactly Christmas-y or anyth..." He trails off, blinks against the satin over his eyes. "... Wait. Wait a second... Sam? No."

"I thought you were uncomfortable with your ass not being clean."

"Yeah, but no, Sam, no!" Dean scrambles for the blindfold, all drunkenness done and gone - but Sam holds his wrists and doesn't let go. "Sam!"

"Just _talking_ , Dean; I just wanna _talk it out_ , that's all; no need to panic, okay? All is good, I'm not gonna do anything, promise."

"Then let GO!"

Sam's hands are vices around Dean's wrists. "Only if you promise not to touch the blindfold."

"Yeah, okay, whatever, just-" He is released. His hands immediately go for each other's wrists and rub them, reclaim them. It doesn't hurt but he hisses nevertheless. "Fuck, don't _do_ that!"

"I do what's necessary," Dean hears. And then frowns. "Listen, if you've done it before, moreover _voluntarily_ , it should be pretty easy on you. Would be one less thing to worry about, don't you think? Didn't you feel _good_ after you had it done?" Fingers that were crushing his joints just a moment ago now brush over the tops of his thighs like down. Dean shivers, licks his lips, still frowns, still holds his wrist close to his chest. "All clean... and empty... and nice...? Don't you think it would relax you some more? You know I can't be bothered, but I know _you_. Doesn't it turn you on at least a little, to know that I could touch you and come away a hundred percent guaranteed clean? 'Cause I think that's something you would enjoy, Dean. Isn't it?"

Dean opens his mouth but decides to bite his lip before he finally speaks. "Do you... You _do_ have the equipment here, don't you?"

"In the bathroom, yes," Sam responds. "All set up and ready, pet." More soothing touches to Dean's legs.

Dean's chest squeezes tight. He thinks for a moment or two, opens his mouth after grinding his teeth. He hasn't lost his frown. "... I'll take the blindfold off for it."

An immediate and humble, "Okay."

"And I'll do it _myself_ ," he presses. He can hear Sam hesitating and then inhaling for another tirade, but his patience is wearing paper-thin right now. "No discussion, Sam. That way or no way at all. I _mean_ it!"

Hesitation. Dean's heart is racing. "... Okay. Yeah. Okay."

"Great," Dean scoffs, grins, rips the blindfold off with one hand and braces the other on the sofa to sit up. If he actually is anything close to as sweaty as he feels like, his challenging expression probably doesn't sound as fearless as it's supposed to be. At least Sam seems a little sour himself. "Now excuse me, Sam, 'cause apparently I'm about to force a gallon of water down the completely wrong end."

Of course he doesn't use an entire gallon all at once, but Sam nevertheless and very timidly asks through the locked door, just to make sure Dean isn't actually overdoing it. Pfsh. This is not the first time that Dean is doing this himself. Fasting is serious business and the less strangers get close to his nether regions, the better. It's fairly easy, too. Dean's willpower can cut through steel beams if he is determined enough, so, yeah, if he tells himself it's good for his body, his body better accepts that.

Dean fills the bag with one quart first, for the warm-up. Another one with three will follow. While the tap water is running, Dean glares over at the IV stand in the corner of the room, right next to the toilet. His boyfriend got him _an actual IV stand_ for this. His boyfriend might have the weirdest, sneakiest mind ever. A blanket on the floor makes Dean grunt. The guy surely did his homework, huh? Now... when exactly did he set up all this stuff? Dean went to the bathroom an hour or so ago and none of this had been here at that time. Had Sam left the room at some point? Maybe while Dean was taking a minute-nap. Where had Sam kept it all hidden? And just how long ago had he planned to introduce Dean to the idea? Dean decides that he will give the whole business some thought while his body is busy.

Hooking up the bag, lying down, inserting the nozzle, making a face, waiting. Dean stares at the bathtub's tiles and concentrates on not feeling anything. The water works its ways until the bag is empty and he himself is full. He puts a timid hand to where his belly is swelling just the tiniest bit. He thinks of later, of the three quarts. He would not touch himself with a belly pregnant with three quarts of liquid, not in a hundred years.

He sits on the toilet and groans, then cramps and shouts profanities as Sam knocks on the door and asks if he is alright in there. "Would you mind NOT camping right in front of the goddamn DOOR?!" Sam says that he's sorry and that it's no big deal, Dean, everybody poops, and Dean wants to die in many, many ways.

The relief is intense and, yeah, pretty satisfying. Dean announces that he will have another round, that Sam is welcome to go read a book or something because twenty minutes will become forty until Dean will come out of the door, "fresh like a spring morning" or something similarly stupid. It's still a colon, Dean thinks, and even if he would use some fancy solution with castile soap or vinegar, that would not change so much. Pure water is good. Warm, nice water. The bag swells with three quarts from the tap and Dean's pulse quickens.

On his side again, he releases the clamp on the nozzle and sinks lower against the tiles, fingers still on the clamp, ready to close it if he underestimates the pressure. Lots of sweat. Before he leaves the bathroom, he will have another shower. Water glugs and Dean's cheeks burn against the soft blanket.

Clean. Empty. He wonders what Sam has planned.

Waiting, toilet, sighing. Shower. Thorough shower. Dean hesitates, wonders if it's such a great idea, but eventually brings one finger to his hole. Water is beating down on him from above, hot and cleansing, and he just had the very same inside of him. What a thought. He angles the tip to push inside, just a little. It disappears easily.

He leans his forehead against the shower wall and slowly pushes deeper. And deeper. And then his entire finger is inside, all the way up to the knuckle. His tongue is in the way of his breathing, distended from the warmth, and he looks down where his ever-so-flat belly is, lovely and smooth and innocent, and a little lower - the cock cage. Bold and outstanding. Alien. Dean's other hand goes there, weighs his junk in its palm. The lock makes a sweet sound, almost _whispers_ under the loud noise from the shower.

Why again is he doing all this? For Sam? For himself? He has a finger up his own ass right now, and if the cage wasn't there, he would be hard enough to pound nails.

Dean takes another few deep breaths before getting ready to step outside the bathroom.

Naturally, Sam is right there, holding the blindfold out for Dean to take. He grabs it. He feels pink and empty and warm, inside out. He hadn't looked into the mirror but guesses that's what Sam is seeing right now.

"I put everything in the tub," he mutters, eyes shy and on Sam as long as they still can.

"Thank you. I'll take care of it later." Soft eyes, nod down to the black satin in Dean's hands. "Please."

Dean nods even though he doesn't have to. There was no question, after all. The blindfold slips over his head, in place, and Dean's arms sink down next to his body. Sweating yet again, he waits. Sam laces their fingers together and walks him back into the living room. Dean is guided down on the couch, on his back once more. Again, his ass is hanging off of the edge. His knees want to come together now even though he has been in this position earlier, too, without feeling this obviously on display. Not much has changed, after all. Still, Dean has to will his fingers into immobility on the smooth leather.

He gasps when Sam's breath ghosts over his skin, the soft insides of his thighs. Nobody ever worshipped him as much as Sam does, and sometimes it's painful to think about. A good pain though. Like holding your breath. Like staying just a second longer even though you know you will get in trouble for it. Sam kisses a slow "u" from one leg to the other, brushes almost absently over metal bars on his way, gives a softest press to Dean's sac. Here, he returns to, kisses and nips and then licks until Dean's thighs are quaking.

Then, lower.

"Ohfuck," Dean rushes, clenches his fingers and then scrabbles for his own face because he needs to hide, needs to crawl inside of himself. His knees pull back though, closer to his chest, making more room for Sam's mouth, for Sam's hands that support him from underneath, hold Dean's ass up for Sam to lick down his taint until he finally-

It's like a kiss. _Is_ a kiss. Sam's lips press down gently, almost gingerly. He repeats that a few times before increasing the force he puts into it.

Dean thinks he might lose his mind even prior to Sam's tongue pushing up and inside him.

It's a haze from then on. Dean is halfway aware of mumbling words, maybe only vowels, maybe encouraging things or pleads to stop because it's too much, Sam, I can't, this is- is- What _is_ it, exactly? The filthiness of it, the perversion; the fact that Sam doesn't care a single bit about that? The lazy drag of his most favorite tongue in his least favorite place of his entire body, making it feel like the best, the most wonderful, the most vulnerable one? Dean's stomach flutters and he is panting, only except for the fact that he doesn't seem to be breathing at all. His chest is too tight to get anything in. His dick is squirming and leaking down his balls, his taint, right over the tip of Sam's nose that is pressed so close to him there - and then Sam groans into his ass and Dean almost loses consciousness.

In between his fingers, Dean manages to sob. "I want to come, please, Sam, please, I need to, I, I _got_ to- to- P-please-"

Sam hums his rejection with his tongue buried deep, and Dean's toes curl at the catch of stubble against his smooth skin.

Sam eats him out for another seemingly endless time. Dean doesn't see a clock anywhere, doesn't think there is one. It feels like half an hour but time is relative, isn't it? Dean has started and stopped shedding tears, is loose and soaked and boneless and can't do much more but watch how Sam hauls Dean's legs up, shoves his sweatpants down to get his dick out and fucks into the tight squeeze of Dean's thighs. Only one, two, three thrusts and it's over again, Sam a breathless, stuttering mess on the back of Dean's thighs, his dick spewing hot over the chastity device. Dean watches. If he looks close enough and shuts out his brain, he can almost convince himself that it's his own come somewhere in that mess, too.

They are showered and on the couch not much more later, Sam's finger idly pumping into Dean's ass, and Dean buries his nose deep in that fresh shirt on Sam's skin. He could get high on Sam's cologne, on the laundry detergent. Maybe tomorrow he will finally ask what brand Sam uses so that he can sneak off into the nearest supermarket to get the very same.

"I've been wanting to do that forever," Sam confesses, and he almost sounds as groggy as Dean feels.

"Yeah? How long?" Dean breathes, eyes closed, brain half asleep.

"First time I saw you at the gym. You were like... _dripping_ with sweat." A breathless chuckle, a finger under Dean's chin to tilt his face up for Sam to kiss his upper lip, right under the nostril. "We shook hands and all I could think about was how bad I wanted you to sit on my face."

" _Jesus_ ," is all Dean can come up with. This and a whole-body shudder, ass included. Sam's finger mocks him with a twist.

"It was worth it, though. The waiting." Now a kiss to Dean's lips. He feels them trembling, wishes that Sam can feel it, too. Sam stretches and yawns, just to slump heavier halfway across Dean, both of them lying on their sides, face to face. The finger churns deeper and Dean gasps, arches his back to offer more. Sam half chuckles, half hisses at that. "Yeah... Definitely worth it."

~ 

Sam does those tiny little things that make Dean's heart swell. It's the only part of him that can really swell right now, after all.

Would you turn over just a little more, so that I can lick your ass while you're reading? Would you like whipped cream on your morning coffee today? Would you mind if I put in another finger, Dean? Just to see what it feels like, if you like it, Dean, and if you don't, I'll stop immediately. How's that sound?

Two kinda hurt. Sam's fingers are huge, after all, but the pressure only stays for a few moments. All the rimming is paying off. Dean's head is spinning and his mouth drooling as he holds on to dear life with Sam fingerfucking him into the bedsheets. Sam forces in another and a copious amount of lube, and that works, too. A nice numbness. A low burn. Dean thinks of nothing, savors the darkness behind the blindfold as much as he dreads it, but Sam's smell is all around him, Sam's voice encouraging and steady. He's safe.

"God, wanna fuck you so _bad_ ," he hears.

Dean's fingers claw into the sheets. "Stop."

"Wanna- What?"

"Stop. Take them out. Stop. STOP."

Sam isn't moving fast enough, so Dean scrambles forward and away, pulls on Sam's wrist and rips the blindfold off his face, tosses it across the room, doesn't matter where, just away. Knees almost under his chin, then changing his mind, climbing off the bed, wide steps, away.

"Dean, I was only- Dean!"

He wants to scream at Sam to not follow him, to leave him alone, but some part of him knows better, doesn't want to lash out at Sam for worrying about him, so he just runs faster - but doesn't make it in time to get into the bathroom to lock himself in.

"Dean, STOP!"

Dean looks elsewhere, not at Sam, not into Sam's eyes, because maybe then he'll see. Nostrils flared, chest heaving, fingers curling due to the force Sam pins them in his hands, and all he can concentrate on gritting is, "No, Sam, not that, everything but not _that_ , I can't, I don-n-n-n't want to, just no."

"Hey, calm down, it was just-"

"This is not a discuss-discuss-discussion, I will, I-I w-w-w-will not discuss this w-w-w-w-with y-y-y-y-you!" Then, under his breath, faster, eyes squeezing shut, "I'mnotgayI'mnotgaypleaseIdon'twanttoplease."

Sam's breath hits him as he speaks, insistent but soothing, and Dean could retch from it. "I was just thinking out loud, sorry, I didn't mean it, I was just running my mouth, I swear. I would never force you, Dean, I would _never_ ; you know that, don't you, Dean? Come on, open your eyes and look at me and tell me that you heard what I said just now, I _need_ you to, you hear me?!"

He does. Frowns and shakes but looks up and feels like shit, like his stomach was bursting at its tight seams, right along with his entire insides. All is boiling and rumbling and he wants to run or fight, can barely see straight but has to hold himself together now, _has to_. "Y-y-y-yeah," he forces, chokes, coughs, stares up at Sam who looks negatively out of his mind, face sweaty and pale and it's dark because it's maybe three AM and they lost their sense for time somewhere this Friday. "I h-h-h-h-h-heard you, I, I di-did, I, yeah."

"I need you to calm down for me. Can you do that, Dean? Come on, deep breaths."

Dean takes a gulp of air, forces it into his body.

Sam nods, eyes wide and restless, in concentration. "Good. There we go. Easy." Those fingers around Dean's wrists hurt, but Dean can't speak and breathe at the same time.

Lights that are not there flicker in front of his eyes and he blinks several times until they go away. Easy. Breathe. Sam won't hurt you. All is well. Calm down. Don't freak him out. You're okay and everything is alright, he always takes care of you, don't you remember?

The meanest of all voices whispers something along the lines of "different book, same old story" and Dean forces it down and away, deep, where it's supposed to rot.

He eventually unwinds enough for Sam to bring him back into the bedroom, allows to be seated on the bed where the sheets are still untidy. Sam jogs to the kitchen to fetch him a glass of water and in the corner of his eye, Dean sees the blindfold in a sad little heap on the floor. He turns away and waits.

"I just d-d-don't want to," Dean pleads, shaking and close to crying now in Sam's arms, Sam's strong wonderful arms that never hurt him, not really, "Not ever. It's just, I, I- I thought you didn't either; y-y-you, you n-n-never brought it up before, so I-I-I thought, I... I thought..."

"Of _course_ I want to-"

Dean's heart crumbles.

"-but I know how you are, Dean, that the entire thing is... that it's hard on you, and I can wait as long as you need me to wait."

 _That's not the point_ , Dean wants to sob. On the outside, he doesn't move at all.

"Look, you're doing so well. You're really opening up to me, to sex in general, and I am so so proud of you. You enjoy what we do, don't you? Concentrate on _that_. Concentrate on what we _have_ , what you have _earned_ , Dean, how much you have _grown_ up to now! You are making so much progress! Don't throw that away now over some headless little thing. I was just mumbling, Dean. Everything at its time, as always; like we always do, right? We'll take as much time as it needs. No pressure. Your decision; you decide. We'll take the next step when _you_ feel ready for it, and not a single second sooner. Alright? Come on, Dean, relax. You know I've got you, don't you?"

Sam shakes him a little, very soft, but Dean is weak enough for it to send his head bobbing. It makes nodding easier.

"Yeah? Yeah, right? It's all gonna be okay. Trust me." A rub to his shoulder, a kiss into his hair. "We'll get you there. You're fine. Nothing's gonna happen. I promise. You have nothing to be afraid of with me. Just believe me and relax. I've got you."

Dean wants to believe. He really, really does. Once more in those many, many years, he would sell his soul if it gave him the chance to turn back time.

~ 

Sam kisses him awake on Sunday and asks with wide, innocent eyes if Dean would be okay with a tongue or a finger up his ass. It takes more than three seconds but is not a lie when he nods, licks his own lip as an already lubed-up finger finds its mark immediately. Sam chews on his earlobe and Dean runs his fingers through his lover's hair.

Sunday, he thinks. The cage will come off on Sunday. He groans at the thought and Sam snickers into his ear, fondles his balls as if he knew. When Dean addresses the issue though, Sam raises his eyebrows in surprise.

"Dean, seven days means _seven days_. A day has twenty-four hours, correct?"

Dean's jaw drops along with his heart... and maybe his entire will to live. "You're kidding me."

"I am _not_ ," Sam gasps in playful indignation, twists his finger deeper and starts getting another one next to it. "I didn't make the rules, you know? You said seven days, so we are doing seven days, pet, and Sunday seven PM until Sunday seven _AM_ is _not_ seven days."

Two force themselves in and Dean hauls for air, grabs Sam's shirt instead of his hair to avoid causing pain. Sam kisses his open mouth with a grin and dimples deep enough to cry over.

"I promised not to go weak on you," Sam coos, and Dean's mind surrenders with a tug on his nipple.

They have breakfast after Dean gets Sam off, and Sam helps himself with second breakfast after Dean has another round with the newly sterilized enema kit. They put a towel under Dean because Dean tends to drool with his ass up and Sam's mouth on him, and because suede is very sensitive when it comes to spilled fluids of all sorts. Since Dean is drooling in two places, that is the brightest idea they have come up with so far today.

How easy it had been to stay calm before seeing relief vanishing out of grasp. Now, Dean wants to thrash and whine, wants to beg for Sam to hand over the key and just get the goddamn thing off. He can't comprehend how he hadn't seen it coming that Sam would be a hundred percent meticulous about their stupid little game. Maybe Dean should reconsider the image he has put together of Sam Wesson. The man is a businessman after all, not only a love-sick puppy. It's easy to forget sometimes that there are quite a few different shades of Sam.

Whenever Dean is starting to make too much noise, Sam changes tactics and goes from teasing him to guiding him into something favoring Sam instead. Then it's right back, all on Dean, and with the blindfold on everything gets even worse, has him scrambling and twitching until he is afraid to fall off the sofa. Or the kitchen island. They settle for the carpet for a while but Sam prefers Dean elevated. _Easier access_ , he calls it.

It's around midday. Sam is panting, his temple damp where he wipes it across Dean's lower back, but Dean can still clearly feel the fabric of the shirt. The room is heated, them too, and Dean is aware of it even though he is butt-naked. To wear clothes right now seems like a waste. But hey, Dean still has his head stuck to his neck even though he doesn't really need it anymore either.

"Let's try something else."

"Yeah. Sure." Dean gave up talking in more than one or two words long ago. Sam does enough talking for both of them. His head is heavy and he should probably have a drink of water sometime soon. He will ask for that once his tongue decides to cooperate sufficiently.

A pat to Dean's ass. "Okay. Stay here. I'll be right back."

"Uh-huh."

In the back of his mind, Dean hears Sam leave, a lock being undone, a door opening. He blinks alive under the blindfold, just to give his eyelids some movement. They feel almost glued together thanks to pressure combined with tears and sweat. He is slumped over on the couch, a new but yet again damp towel underneath him. The carpet is soft, yeah, sure, but everything becomes uncomfortable to the knees at some point. If his cock wouldn't take up most of his sensory attention, Dean surely would feel more than only a softly burning sensation on his legs. Things to worry about later, probably.

Closing of a door, lock, barefoot steps on wooden floor. Here we go again.

"Okay. Stretch your arm out behind your back."

"Mwheh?" Dean wriggles the fingers of his right arm.

"Whichever side you feel like."

"Mwkay." The right one, then.

Sam's palm curls around the back of Dean's hand, and that definitely helps with keeping Dean's arm extended. Even his elbows don't serve much of a purpose anymore, apparently.

Something cool and thin wraps around his skin. Almost silky in its slide. Oh.

A pinch in the depths of Dean's stomach. "Wow. _Kinky_ ," he teases halfway over his shoulder, too little bothered to actually move but too excited not to do anything at all.

Sam just hums a humored tone and keeps wrapping up Dean's arm.

With a tug, the rope tightens some. The sudden, added pressure brings a new heat underneath Dean's skin. He readjusts his knees on the carpet, just a little, and curls his fingers in Sam's hand, just a little.

"Too tight?"

"No," Dean breathes. Swallows. "I'm good."

Sam's thumb swipes over the folds inside of Dean's palm. "In that case, give me the other one."

Oh shit. Dean swallows again, licks his lips as he holds out his left behind himself, now tries a little harder to bend his head backwards even though he can't see a thing anyway. Sam's hand lets go of Dean's roped-up one to get a hold of the other. While Sam repeats the procedure, Dean flexes the fingers of his bound arm. Definitely not too tight. It feels nice, actually. A good, smooth material. It doesn't bite into his skin but the weight of it... Well, Dean can definitely feel it.

Dean's eyes move behind the blindfold when Sam tugs everything tight once more.

"Still good?"

Some stabbing nods, clearing of throat. "Uh, yeah. Yeah."

"Okay. ... Dean? I am going to tie your wrists together now."

Oh shit.

"Is that alright with you?"

Oh _shit_. "... Yes," Dean breathes.

That happy sound again. Sam tugs Dean's arms together over the small of his back, a little straighter, a little longer. The tension is palpable all the way up to Dean's shoulders, pulls his shoulder blades together just a bit, only far enough for him to be aware of it. His heart is thumping against his chest and the sofa, his eyes restless but blind. He feels like arching his back some more but isn't sure if he wants to look even sluttier with his ass pushed out as wide as it already is.

Sam's fingers leave - in order to tie a knot, Dean assumes. The rope makes a soft sound, a rustling, as it shifts against itself, is wrapped and pulled and secured. Sam tugs a few times. Dean's arms move along without any chance not to.

Dean's arms flop down on his back as they are released from Sam's hands. The neat, slick rows of rope bob across Dean's sweaty flesh. Again, he flexes his fingers to test the tightness, and it still feels comfortable. The angle of his arms is a little off, a little unfamiliar since he is leaning against the couch with his head and chest down. Experimentally, he folds his arms to get rid of some of the tension from holding them straight, but he doesn't come too far. He is too strung out, his muscles too tired.

Midday. Sunday. Warm light through the window. Sam on his knees behind him. Dean's arms bound behind his back. Cock locked up and leaking like a motherfucker. Great. Just great.

His arms relax, his shoulders pull. Not much else to do otherwise.

Dean lets out a shaky exhale into the towel.

He sways with the impact of those two huge hands planting themselves on either side of his hips, running up and down from waist to ass and back. A massage, if you will. Dean exhales again, deep, dwells in the slide of Sam's skin on his own sweaty one. The ropes move with every touch. Dean tries to touch them with just the tips of his fingers, but they are nowhere bendy enough to reach his own wrists.

"You look very good," Sam informs.

"... Does it turn you on?"

A short pause. The hands keep moving. "Very," Sam decides.

Dean stares into blackness. His tongue feels over his teeth.

"And you, pet?"

"Huh?"

"Does it turn _you_ on?"

Hands press and tilt Dean's hips until his back is arched low, ass stuck out, presented for Sam to press up against. He is wearing the same old sweatpants and only shoves them aside when he is in the mood for Dean's mouth or hands. No underwear; not exactly necessary. Dean can feel the hard line of Sam's cock as if there was no clothing at all.

It's an easy answer, really, but the context turns Dean hoarse by saying it out loud. "Yeah."

Appreciating sound. Sam's crotch bumps into him harder, only once, but the cage and lock jingle easily. It presses some air out of Dean's throat, pulls his shoulders tighter.

"Ever had this done to you? Anyone's ever tied you up? Maybe handcuffs for a cute Valentine's?"

"No," Dean mutters. He feels like adding that he doesn't think he would have let anyone but Sam do this to him and that it moreover wouldn't get him this awestruck with anyone else, _ever_ , but the words are too long, too exhausting. He keeps them for himself, for the redness in his cheeks and the ache in his chest.

"Aren't you scared?"

Blinking against darkness. "Uh... no." Dean shakes his head. "No."

"Really? Since you are at my mercy and all now, you know. Think about it."

Suddenly, yeah, Dean _does_.

"I could do a lot to you right now, actually... and you would have no chance but to take it."

Sam leans forward, drapes himself over Dean's back. Dean can feel the shirt slipping over his skin. The hands that had been stilling now roam again.

"All kinds of things," Sam muses. Then, he drops lower until they are chest to back.

Dean stares at the inside of his blindfold, cannot speak, can only breathe. Sam's weight on his upturned hands render his fingers motionless. Sam's breath ghosts across his neck, his hairline. Dean flinches, tries to shift a little to even out the heaviness bearing down on him. Of course, it doesn't get him far.

Sam moves quietly, slowly. It actually takes Dean by surprise to feel lips brush over the shell of his ear. When Sam speaks again, he punctuates every word with a gentle nip to Dean's ear. "Whatever. I. Want."

Dean's breath comes shallow. Oh. The poor, poor carpet.

Tongue, then teeth. "So?"

Dean's throat is tight when he rushes, "I'm- I'm not scared."

"Hm." Comical voice, smallest pull back. Then closer to Dean's ear again, a little louder now, a little mocking. "Now how does _that_ work out? Mind sharing that one with the class, pet?" Halfway through his words, Sam sucks Dean's earlobe between his lips and easily pierces it between his canines. Little chewing motions make colors dance in Dean's darkness.

"You said you wouldn't hurt me," Dean pants.

His earlobe stills between Sam's teeth.

"It's... You said so. You said that we... that you wouldn't hurt me, so... so, yeah, I trust you, so." Swallowing. "So I'm not scared, Sam."

Nothing that isn't lifted and lowered with the breath in Dean's chest moves for a while; nothing.

Then, a thin, breathless choke. Could be a huff of laughter, too.

No other word is spoken between them for another hour. Dean is not silent but what he produces are not words, either. And Sam... well, his mouth is needed otherwise. At some point, Dean is pretty sure his soul is leaving his body, just to fall into complete indifference about said fact not much later. Dean had been on meditation weekends. Dean has experiences with mantras and with sitting in Lotus position for two hours and slowly feeling his body lifting from the ground. Those weekends now don't seem so spectacular anymore. It's all so much easier to achieve - and instead of a few hundred dollars, it only costs him a minimal amount of pride and a heap of headless bravery. Fortunately for him, Sam borrows his mouth for free. Such a charitable man.

It turns out the ropes are a practical thing: Dean is tugged and held upright by them, his protesting shoulders not exactly high on his priority list with Sam's tongue still swirling so deep inside of him that Dean swears he could see it move behind his bellybutton if he looked down between his legs without the damn blindfold on. He sobs because everything hurts but feels wonderful at the same time - and because there's probably a giant and ever-increasing wet spot on Sam's favorite carpet. His thighs are definitely soaked now, the constant trickling sensation very faint but torturous with time. If his hands were free, he could at least swipe some of the mess up.

Sam asks if Dean can stand up and ends up throwing him over his shoulder like a drenched sack. Dean feels one part miserable and one part out of his mind aroused for it, Sam's earlier growl of Dean being at his mercy a consistent part of his thoughts now. The ropes drive him insane, everything about them. The most prominent fact is that Dean _likes_ it. No, scratch that - _loves_ it. He feels helpless and in combination with Sam ravishing him like he currently is, it seems to press all the right buttons in his brain. A more feral side. Nothing he particularly favors, no... but this is just breathtaking.

Many emotions go through his head, most of them being different variations of "exhausted" and "freaked out". But, oh. The tough hold of Sam's hands on him, how he arranges Dean with his chest pressed to the top of the kitchen island with his face down, ass up, toes only barely on the ground anymore to hold himself upright - there is such a certainty to it, so much _care_. Sam groans for him to put his feet on his shoulders once Sam is kneeling and all Dean can answer is a weird combination of swearwords. It's that or a love confession. Dean chooses the obviously less painful thing.

Sam goes down and then _goes down_ , and Dean throws his head around with enough momentum to seriously knock his temple on the countertop. It's not so sure if he sees stars because of the impact or because of Sam's tongue. He groans for both and curls his toes deeper into the muscles on Sam's shoulder.

He wants to come _so bad_. He's in fact sure that he never wanted to come so bad in his entire life, teenage years included. Not saying so much, actually, since he wasn't much of a horny kid when he thinks about it. Which he isn't. Thinking is not on the table right now - _he_ is. Or the kitchen island. Whatever. Kitchen. Sam. Cage. Fuck. He needs it off, and he needs it off yesterday.

One idle corner of Dean's mind starts making new plans. There must be a way to gain Sam's mercy, right? There just _has_ to be. Maybe a trade would be a possibility? But what could he offer? Another change in tongue-pattern sends him writhing, turns every ounce of idea into fine mist. Dean is swearing again. At least there is no carpet in this room.

"I want to slap your ass."

Dean whimpers, curls his fingers closed. Sam's hand has been rubbing over the right globe of his ass for some time now. There's a squeeze here and there; a nice change to the constant wet pressure against his sphincter. Maybe that would be a good idea, yeah. Just to see what it's like.

"Please, pet, let me; _please_ say yes." Sam moans the words with his tongue out, a little lisping, and his palm is so insanely wide when it's all spanned out on Dean's ass-

"Hokay," Dean wheezes, and the first blow makes him kick out. It doesn't hurt, is louder than it is anything else, but he whimpers nevertheless. Probably would have done so even without the slap. Then another, just as loud but a little meaner, and Sam pulls his mouth back for a second to change sides for the next. Dean's knee buckles, hits against the island, but right then Sam hisses something about both god almighty and Dean's ass and that kind of makes everything bright and blurry again. What's a "knee" anyway? You surely don't need those.

The hits keep coming and the force Sam puts behind them increases rather quickly. When Dean thinks he has gotten used to the pattern, Sam changes it, makes them even meaner, even quicker. A handful of quick ones on one and the same side make Dean squirm, then grit his teeth. He tries to take a breath in what he thinks is a short pause, but the next blow is really-

"FUCK!"

And Sam laughs.

It's starting to hurt. Seriously. Dean loses control over his muscles. Everything is shaking, one foot always somehow happening to slip from Sam's shoulder. Would be easier on bare skin. More grip. Another hit and Dean yelps. Another, and he is sobbing again.

There is sweat and spit and everything is definitely filthy at this point. Dean wishes he could care about any of it, had enough sense left to think about anything but the sting on his backside, the agony caught in metal between his legs. It burns; both. He just wants to come. It's not that hard, not really. Just _getting_ hard would do the trick; maybe only halfway would be enough already.

Teeth dig into the already alit flesh of his ass. Dean's foot kicks out, fortunately hits nothing at all, but his throat feels dangerously dry at whatever sound he just made. Loud, probably. His lungs are burning. Fingers twitch and scrabble at nothing with nowhere to go. He shoves his hands lower to protect himself but Sam has _two_ hands and only needs _one_ to pull the ropes up and away.

And then Sam licks him again. Wide, wet, and Dean's skin ripples with each strike of that one lonesome hand.

Dean Smith has been in quite a few exhausting scenarios in his lifetime, if he may say so himself. He's a fan of intense workouts, of lost breath and wobbly knees. Definitely nobody to say "no" to a marathon. But there's a limit to everything.

Dean Smith knows he is screaming his lungs out and has been on the edge of consciousness for quite a while now, but what he can't remember exactly is how everything turns numb and off and black. Maybe because he can't see a thing anyway.

Dean Smith wakes up to the chirping of birds and the smell of a fresh summer morning.

The curtains of Sam's bed are indeed dark, but to Dean who hasn't seen anything but blackness for the greatest part of an entire twenty-four hours, they appear in all different shades of purple. Bright. Intense. Soft light is shining in through the windows and gives the room an almost magical shimmer.

Everything smells clean. Like bed. Like Sam's laundry detergent. A little like lavender. Dean's skin feels soft, fresh from a shower. He pulls his hand towards the middle of his body and feels clothing shifting on himself. A shirt. He is wearing a shirt. And shorts.

Dean raises his hand in front of his eyes. He blinks a few times at the sight of his fair skin.

A few thoughts appear and disappear. Rope marks. Huh. How odd.

His arm drops back down. Dean stares at the ceiling.

The arm comes back up.

Holy shit.

 _Rope marks_.

"Hey, sleeping beauty! I thought I had to get some dwarfs ready." Sam is full of life and not much more than a blur with how fast he moves. A kiss to Dean's temple, movement, sound of a drawer opening and closing, and just when Dean starts to sit up and opens his mouth, a button-down and a pair of suit pants get tossed at him. Sam looks back and forth between them and Dean, gesturing to the pile of clothes. "Come on, we're almost late! John is a good driver but he's no magician. Chop chop!"

Dean's mouth closes and Sam storms out of the bedroom, obviously busy to get his things together.

In the car and deep in rush hour, Dean demurely asks why Sam has a stock of clothes for Dean at his place. "Because I'm _smart_ ," comes the answer. Dean is having dimples for breakfast today, apparently.

"We didn't, uh..." Dean fumbles with a button of his approximately hundred dollar shirt he is wearing under his approximately two thousand dollar suit. He lowers his voice despite knowing John can't hear them through the partition. Still. His face feels hot and it's not even eight AM yet. Well, there are bigger problems right now. "The, the _thing_ , it's still...! Y-you didn't take it _off_."

Dean doesn't need that "oh, really?" look on Sam's face right now. Not one single bit. "Well excuse me, but I was kind of busy getting you back into a halfway civilized form, man. Give a guy some credit. You know how difficult it is _not_ to drown an unconscious person in the shower?"

Dean makes a face. "That's all very nice, yeah. But I don't know if I... How I..." An unnerved toss of head, pleading eyes; hissed whisper. "I have no idea how I'm supposed to _work_ like this!"

Dimples grow up to an ear to ear grin. "That bad, huh?"

"Worse!" Dean corrects, crosses his legs because oh goddamn. He had about two minutes in the bathroom for himself, and he used it for stuffing toilet paper into his underwear. The change in position reminds him of his other not any less major problem and he holds his breath instead of squealing like a little girl.

The grin melts. A little. "Oh, fuck. Did I overdo it?"

"Yeah, no, Sam, you only set my goddamn ass on fire!"

"Now come on," Sam laughs, leans back in the seat. "I didn't even put that much force into it."

Dean glares daggers. "It's a miracle it's not bleeding, you asshole."

"I wouldn't make you _bleed_ , pet. Urgh." A disgusted look. "Blood is _so_ not sexy."

They use the duration of the car ride to argue about the next possible way to free Dean from his prolonged chastity. It gets a little heated when Sam confesses he left the key at home; "because it had to be so quick this morning, honest, Dean". Yeah, sure. As if it didn't give Sam the biggest boner ever to know Dean has to sit through the longest nine hours of his entire life with his balls as blue as the sea. Dean decides in the secrecy of his mind that he won't say yes to another damn chastity bullshit again anytime soon. Or ever. Would suit the jerk right. Anyway.

"Eight PM?!" The leather seats groan along with Dean as he lets himself slump against them. "Can't you reschedule it? Come on, have a heart!"

"I'm sorry but I can't," Sam coos, scoots a little closer to the heap of misery that is Dean so that he can get a hold of his hands to cradle them in his own. Dean groans again and gets a smooch to his cheek. "It's an important dinner with an important client. It's been agreed on for weeks. I'll be home as fast as I can, promise."

Dean allows a kiss to his mouth. He growls, "You could make this a lot easier if you just told me where you hid the damn keys."

Flutter of lashes. Empty face. "I can't."

Dean frowns. "... What?"

"They're in a room you don't have access to."

"Then gimme the- Sam, just gimme the damn keys to that room then, for god's sake!"

" _No_."

Dean pulls back. What a decisive voice all of a sudden.

"This is the one and the only time you will hear me tell you this, and you better listen closely, 'cause I really hate to repeat myself: you are _not_ entering that room without my permission, pet, and neither will you ever see a key to said room. _Ever_."

Sam is still holding Dean's hand, still keeps them warm. Dean ducks his head and mutters his, "Yeah, sure; gosh. No need to bark at me like that."

Sam Wesson withdraws himself from Dean in favor of closeness to the window. One of his mile-long legs folds itself over the other, and he places his elbow on the armrest to make himself more comfortable. Dean watches Sam watching the busy traffic through tinted glass. If today is going to be anything, it's going to be a day for a heavy drink or two to go with lunch, Dean decides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will come early - on Thursday, to be exact - because I won't be in the country in time (once again).


	11. Chapter 11

Mr. Smith... no, _Dean_ frowns across the edge of his glasses and pushes them up his nose. Then frowns harder. Considers closing the tab with the generic search engine. The suggested search terms to what he got until now aren't a very good start to this. Especially at his work place. He shouldn't be using the internet for personal stuff at his work place. Pretty sure this is illegal. On the other hand... it's definitely somehow illegal to keep someone in chastity beyond the agreed timeframe, too. Dean is the victim here. Still, he stares at the letters. Black on white. Almost too formal.

_my boyfriend wants_

Google completes with "me to call him daddy" - "to eat me out" - "to get me pregnant". Second one: check. Third one: uh, negative. First one: actually...

Dean types and hits enter before he can talk himself out of it.

About six million results of boyfriends wanting to be called "sir".

Okay.

Dean kind of wants to sit back, have a walk, think about his life choices. Instead, he ends up with his eyes stuck to the screen and his finger on the mouse. Clicking, reading. Eventually, he _does_ sit back. He sighs while he does so.

BDSM.

Another link, more or less same scenario - girl wants to introduce the sir thing to her boyfriend, is afraid how he will take it, seeks advice. Another few along these lines and nervousness creeps back into Dean. Shit. He isn't in his early twenties anymore and neither is Sam. Dean isn't some naughty little girl who is adventurous and wants to be dominated. He is a grown man with manly interest and Sam is, too. They're adults. They're responsible. They are down to earth and know what they want. They don't fit the pattern of this... thing.

BDSM.

Dean cradles his chin in his palm, scratches the corner of his eye with his free hand. Frowning. More frowning.

Well. It _does_ make sense, doesn't it?

The toys. The spanking. The ropes.

Dean allows himself to pull back his shirtsleeve just a little; just enough to reveal the secret and by now much less impressive marks from yesterday. The ropes hadn't even been _that_ tight. Dean swallows, runs his fingertip over his skin. He pulls the sleeve back in place but finds himself rubbing his thumb over what they are hiding while diving deeper into the depths of his safety mode lunch break activities.

Bondage and discipline. Domination and submission. Sadism and masochism. A great heap of words Dean hadn't given much of a thought to until now; at least not in this context. Discipline is substantial for any workout regime, of course. As a manager, you have to radiate dominance to keep your employees in line. Dean is a little of all of this. And yes, obviously it had crossed his mind a few times that Sam could be like... this. That Sam _is_ like this. As things are though, it is way too easy to shut out strange thoughts of that kind. It's so much more convenient to imagine Sam as a well-mannered, elegant gentleman instead of - well, let's face it - a freak.

Dom. Sub. From what the definitions say, Sam would make the perfect dom.

Dean closes a few astray tabs in his browser as if it would help keeping his mind in order, too.

_Some people just look the type, Dean._

_A little masochism never hurt anyone._

He runs his hands through his hair, practiced in not messing up his styling. He is thinking. Could it be true? Could that be the case? He doesn't feel like it, not really. If he was this way, he would have thought about it earlier in his life, right? He would have become curious, just like he is right now, and he would have researched the heck out of the entire issue. Apparently, there's _a lot_ to read, and Dean only just scratched the surface.

No, he thinks. It is too odd. It doesn't add up. Yeah, Sam is like that, but Dean doesn't think he is. Even if he might enjoy part of it. But Dean isn't like that. Dean does not want to be dominated. By anyone. Especially his partner. Especially his six feet four two hundred pounds partner. Not such a good idea, no. Sam would probably be intimidating picking flowers or holding a newborn child. Somehow, Dean can't imagine Sam with a child at all.

When no immediate suggestions pop up at "how long in a cock cage is healthy", Dean grunts in a sudden burst of anger before he quits the browser in a sudden wave of shame. Research is officially over.

Lunch break continues in the bathroom. Dean sheds a drop of sweat or two and maybe a hint of a tear. Tugging on the damned device doesn't get him anywhere but into pain land. Which he is not into, no, definitely. If he was, he would enjoy the fuck out of this torture - which obviously is not the case here. He hisses and groans, bumps his forehead into the wall. He knows he is alone in the room, so why not be a little pathetic. No one will know. Okay. Maybe more than a hint of a tear. Shit. Eight PM. Eight PM. Dean's new mantra. Eight PM.

Dean has to change shirts two thirds into his work day. The sweating is obnoxious. Sam is nowhere to be seen; it's a busy day. Dean spends another hour of overtime just for the sake of it but in the end has to resign to leaving for his home. Or, well, maybe Sam's home right away? He has _a key_ to house number fifty, and isn't that the worst joke of his entire life? Dean would go to the gym if he had any power left to do so. Instead, he is glad to make it into the taxi in one solid piece. Hah. _Solid_. Dean wants to cry.

It's Sam's, right away. No real use in pacing around his own place for another two hours, right? At Sam's, he can at least have the leftovers of Sunday's chicken-and-whatnot and a book he hasn't read yet. Reading. Sounds good in theory, yeah, but all Dean manages is to dump himself into the bathtub for a lukewarm soaking. He feels miserable; a little sick. It's just a metal device and it won't hurt you, Sam wouldn't do this if it was harmful to you, so get it together, just another two hours, one and a half, one.

Ten past seven and Dean is trying to wrench his fingers between the unyielding metal once more. This is how a dog must feel with one of those cones around its neck, Dean figures, and lets his hand flop back onto the bed. He curses under his breath and is sweating again despite being completely naked. Great. Just great.

Twelve past seven and Dean finds himself kneeling in front of the bedside drawer, knob in hand, pulling it open. His hair is sticking up at weird angles and he must be flushed again, slick and sweaty and ugh, Sam _has_ to have something in here that could help Dean out. Lube. Dean squints at it and shoves it aside. Tissues. A whole lot of nothing. A room full of books and a mind apparently made of nothing else but Dean on all fours, but no damn sign of-

A noise. Something just rolled into the back of the drawer. Dean grabs for it, mindlessly, helplessly; desperately. He pulls it out, opens his hand to look at his prize.

It's a butt plug. It's obvious and immediate and Dean hasn't ever really seen one because he isn't this kind of sick, no, fuck - but that's what it is, right? Something to shove up your butt. Goes well with lube. Sam keeps it here, conveniently, next to the bed.

Dean stares at the toy for another solid minute before his brain reminds him of the possibility of this being used before, and Dean almost sprains his wrist on the drawer's edge when he lets go with a quite uncontrolled gesture. He shoves the drawer closed and makes it rattle with the impact. He can hear the plug roll and hearing the plug roll makes him shout out in anger. Just a garbled nothing. Desperate. God, he hates everything.

Fourteen past seven. Dean doubts he will survive these next forty-six minutes. If Sam even is on time. _If_.

Fourteen and a few seconds past seven. Dean rips the bedside cabinet's drawer open, grabs a handful of its contents, shoves it closed with audible force and stomps into the bathroom.

Not so sure why he locks the door; it's nobody here but him. But fuck. Fuck. He tosses the two items he brought right into the bathtub. The jingle of metal against metal lock has grown to a tinnitus by now and Dean swears not exactly softly, rakes his hands back through his hair, paces the room.

Seventeen past seven. Dean sits on the toilet lid with his head in his hands and whimpers.

Nineteen past seven. Dean steps into the bathtub and turns on the water, pulls the shower curtains closed. He has his eyes shut and exhales sharply through the grit of his teeth, puffs his cheeks, lets them deflate again. His hands roam around his belly and sides with almost a little too much pressure, too much fingernails. A glance to his feet, where the items lie. Dean groans with his head thrown back and hates himself.

Twenty-one past seven. Dean has his forehead against the tiled wall, one hand cradling his junk, the other on his ass. The water was stopped but still drips from him. The lubed finger sliding in and out of his ass and his own pathetic panting is all the sound there is. Dean's eyes are screwed shut and he groans, squeezes his balls. They ache. So. Freaking. Bad. His ass burns and his cheeks, too. On fire. Bugs crawling under his skin. This one is a good ache, somehow. At least better than the one between his legs that has been driving him crazy for the good side of the entire day. Or week. Yeah. More than a week. Feels like a lifetime.

Terrible thoughts. Sad thoughts. What if he never gets it up ever again? What if Sam was wrong? Maybe Dean is the exception to the rule and keeping him down by force blocks his tubes or something. That's not impossible, right? Accidents happen.

Dean cranes his neck to push his mouth and nose against the tiles instead of his forehead. The cold feels good. He twists his finger, angles a second one. His nail catches on his rim and he pulls the other one out to get both in there together. Like a hot knife through butter. Dean feels himself trembling, feels a warm something dripping down his wrist. He grunts and wishes the sound of water back. Wishes Sam back. Wishes to come all over these damn tiles, the towels, everything. Into Sam's stupid hair. Into Sam's stupid, stupid face. His fingers fuck him but compared to Sam's, they're nothing.

Half past seven. Dean holds on to the edge of the bathtub with the one hand, holds the toy steady with the other. "'Nothing's dirty in the shower'," he mock-reminds himself without an ounce of humor, eyebrows knitting tight, mouth thin and thighs trembling from the awkward squatting position. As if he was taking a... no, don't think about it like that, no, just don't. Think nice thoughts. Calming thoughts. "'Nothing's dirty in the shower'."

The black silicone is almost too smooth and slick with all the lube Dean poured on it, but damn, he needs it like that. No chafing, no pain, no nothing. Just easy, slick slide. He imagines that to be nice. Like his fingers. Like Sam's. Better than his own fingers because it's a foreign object, not attached to his own body, and better than Sam's because Sam is not fucking here to help him out.

A timid drop and the toy breaches him easily. Dean makes no sound at all. The deeper he lets himself sink, the slacker his face goes. Like taking a deep breath. It's good. It's really really really good. The slide is crazy and the width of the plug comfortable even though it increases slightly; nothing burns or stretches until it's a fair amount of inches in. Here, Dean pulls back, hears a little sigh from himself, sinks back down. Nothing's dirty in the shower. He thinks it because his mouth is too loose to say it out loud.

Twenty-two to eight. Dean Smith has the left side of his face pressed into the enamel tub, his ass in the air and he plunges the plug all the way in before ripping it right out. While he does so, his free hand squeezes his sac close to his caged cock. Precome oozes between the webbing of his fingers, down his skin and into the tub and he feels boneless, weightless, somewhere between set on fire and beaten to hell. The throbbing turned into something more, into a low, gnawing thrumming. Every punch of the toy into his insides is like a small orgasm, the brink of one. The closest he's been since Sam made him black out with his arms tied up, his ass being spanked and licked into delirium.

Dean is making a low sound from somewhere between his lower ribs and he can't exactly feel his legs anymore, but he neither is sure nor does he care.

Twelve to eight. "Hurry the fuck up!" demands Dean with his face rather swollen, his hair still a little wet. From the corridor, he sees and hears Sam grumbling something along the lines of "nice to see you, too" but couldn't care less about politeness at this point. He _was_ polite. Too polite. That's what got him here.

After shedding coat and shoes, Sam closes the living room door to shield Dean's view of him entering the "forbidden" room. The door opens only moments later and he strides towards Dean with what must be the most delicate and beautiful key Dean has ever seen in his entire life between his fingers, one eyebrow raised and visibly exhausted, unamused. Well, get in line, asshole.

"Finally!" Dean groans, gets up and lets the towel he had clutched around his hips fall to the floor. He lifts the t-shirt he is wearing a little to grant easier access. Sam is still a few steps away when he already has done all this. "C'mon, c'mon!"

"Pushy," Sam grunts but falls to his knees immediately. Dean pushes his hips out a little and Sam kisses next to his navel, runs his hands down the top of Dean's legs.

"Quit it, get to it."

"Alright, alright." Sounds almost like a sigh. As if Sam was sad. Disappointed. Fuck him.

Dean almost moans when the key is fitted into the lock of his cage. He swears he can feel the slide through every inch of metal. His dick is pressing against the bars more violently with every too-quick heartbeat. "C'mon, please, get it off, get it off!" Hands into Sam's hair, eyes on Sam's too slow but beautiful, graceful fingers. He can see Sam looking up at him, sees the lippy little boy attitude as if this was a game, as if Dean was some kind of test animal. He hates it, so he doesn't focus on it.

The key turns torturously slow.

"Y'know," Sam breathes, calm and steady as if Dean's fingernails weren't currently digging into his scalp, "we could have gotten you off if you would have let me fuck you."

The lock snaps open.

Dean shoves Sam off of himself, falls backwards onto the couch ass-first, knees spread wide and hands ripping the now separated parts off of his dick. Without the lock, the ring can be pulled wider and as soon as Dean does exactly that, he can feel full circulation coming back. He lets his head fall back with a throaty wheeze, tosses the terrible metal parts away, runs both of his hands over his filling dick. He almost says "welcome back". He's shaking already, from the beginning of an erection alone.

Warmth between his legs, shoving them apart even wider, warm hands on his thighs. Dean doesn't exactly care and keeps fondling himself, squeezes and feels and twitches, can't keep still. He wants to jerk off for like, two hours straight. Yeah, he could do that. Definitely.

"Are you happy now?"

"Yes," Dean slurs, works his right hand up and down. It's already making wet noises.

"Did you hear what I just said?"

Dean groans his approval, tosses his head. "I just don't wanna do that, Sammy."

"Don't call me Sammy." Both Sam's body and Sam's breath rush over Dean, and Dean whimpers, bucks his hips. He's so close, so close and Sam is running his huge, wonderful hands all over his skin, under his shirt, kisses his neck, keeps his whispering insistent. "Why not, Dean? Why not?"

"Jus' don't wanna," Dean chokes, grinds his face into Sam's on another mindless toss.

"But it's so good. I could make it so good for you, Dean. Why won't you let me, why not?"

"Ah," is all Dean has to answer. Shaking apart, he comes.

White light, no vision at all, warm weight on top of him, balls drawn so tight that he barely has anything to squeeze, and his dick spurts and spurts, soaks right through Dean's tee.

Hearing returns before sensation, so Dean hears Sam kissing him before he feels it, before he can blink open his eyes in the summer evening darkness of the barely lit living room of house number fifty, sixth floor. His dick is still straining hard in his fist, sloppy and so wonderfully hard, and Dean's tee slides over his own skin as Sam paws at it in wild patterns. He makes a happy, exhausted sound and Sam bites his tongue first, his bottom lip later, pulls it obscenely long from Dean's mouth before he lets go, lets it snap back, laps at it again. Dean has his ass angled up from how his knees are hooked over the top of Sam's thighs, feels his exposed asshole throb faintly from the earlier assault. The light fabric of Sam's slacks is like Heaven against his skin.

He sighs. A loud, almost lewd sound.

"Good?" Sam hums.

"Yeah. More," Dean babbles, chases Sam's mouth, feels spit slicking the way, their stubble catching against each other. He gasps as he picks up the movement of his hand again, at the dripping wet slide, the by now unfamiliar sensation of touching his own swollen dick. Feels thicker than what he remembers. Hotter. Firmer. God, he loves it.

Sam kisses him deep before he asks if he should blow him but Dean shakes his head, says it'd be too much. Sam slides down anyway, mouths at Dean's hip bones, the beginning of his thighs, their insides, Dean's knuckles and fingers around his balls, licks in between to get at the latter. Dean gasps again, more scandalized, more high-pitched than before, spreads his legs wider and quickens the pace of his hand. He could come again in no time, absolutely no problem; fuck. His first load is plastering his shirt to his skin as it dries and by the end of this - however long it will take - Dean is sure to be a complete mess. The foresight does nothing but turn his head dizzy.

Close to orgasm number two and Sam nudges his nose under Dean's sac, brings his mouth to Dean's asshole. Dean lets him, pulls his legs into a wider V to grant Sam more space. His chest is vibrating now, breath coming in staccato heaves - and there he goes again. He's loud this time, groans from deep inside of his chest, arches his back and feels Sam correcting his posture immediately to be able to keep getting at his hole with his damn talented tongue. He has to let go of his cock this time, whimpers, brings both hands to the neckline of his shirt to fist them into it and jerks his legs - Sam is still rimming him with enthusiasm. A shout of some sort because suddenly, two fingers are forcing into him. Dean's hands go from gripping his shirt to gripping Sam's hair but don't push away, _pull in_ , and Dean can't open his eyes because everything is so goddamn perfect right now, because he has no power over his body whatsoever. And here, Sam switches from eating him out to sucking his cock right down to the base.

Dean legitimately considers he might be dying.

He comes down Sam's throat a few minutes into it. The fourth and last one feels like it takes forever to get to but omnipresent at the same time. Sam's fingers dig into his prostate and Sam's lips are fuck-tight on his dick, sucking Dean down like it's the best, the easiest thing. Once Dean is present enough again to open his eyes, the first thing he sees is Sam's intense gaze on him, exactly and nowhere but on him, and it would be a lie to say Dean isn't shivering hard at that. Fingers shove into his mouth apparently out of nowhere, two, just like in his ass, and Dean sucks and rolls his tongue as if he could eat them. Or get himself off through it. Doesn't matter. He comes almost dry while gagging on Sam's fingers, while pressing Sam down on his jerking cock as if Sam needed any further motivation.

Exhaustion. Head lolling to the side, seeing nothing but dancing lights. Legs dropping open and wide, Sam pulling off and out of him in all kinds of ways, leaving Dean floating and soaked, breathing coming shallower with every draught. Could sleep right now, right here. Doesn't even consider all the sweat, all the come flaking on his skin.

Hands roam over him, the inside of his thighs, his belly, back down. Worshipping, soft.

Dean finds his lips curling into a loose smile.

~ 

Dean is nose-deep in the Miller-Ronaldson contract and a bowl of salad when Sam leans in over the tiny table and asks, "Is this private enough for a private talk?"

Dean coughs and chews all at once and nods, too. Sam has been exceptionally quiet throughout the past few days. Without a doubt, it has something to do with last weekend. Dean had a feeling something might come and then knew it would come _soon_ when Sam proposed lunch at a more secluded place, several blocks away from CS. Sam can be obvious like that if he wants to.

"Okay," Sam breathes, sits back, folds his hands in front of him on the table. As if this was a business lunch. As if Sam had to break Dean some bad news. ... Oh shit. "So. I've been thinking."

It crosses Dean's mind to ask if Sam is about to fire him. He doesn't ask that. "... Yes?"

"Yeah." Sam is avoiding Dean's eyes. Not good. "It's uh, it's been on my mind for a while, but I didn't know if I could... should... bring it up. Yet. With you, that is. Because I didn't know. How you would take it, I mean." A glance over at Dean. "Since I know you're rather... traditional. About stuff."

Oh shit. Is this about the BDSM-thing? "Is this about the BDSM-thing?"

Dean slaps his hand over his mouth.

His fork makes an inelegant dance from fingers over edge of bowl, table, thigh, floor. He ducks to retrieve it with a two second delay and comes back up with a fire-red face. And his fork. In both his hands.

They don't say anything for a while. Dean knows Sam is looking at him but can't bring himself to do the same. Fork. Fork is better. Put fork back into bowl. Yes. Now let go of fork. No? Okay. Hold on to fork.

Sam's voice is small when he speaks up again. "Actually... yes."

Dean stares at his salad.

"I take it that you thought about it? Did you look into it?"

Dean doesn't think he can speak right now. His throat manages a hoarse, "Uh." Very intelligent.

"So you did."

"Huh," Dean chokes.

"That's fine. Perfectly fine, Dean. I mean, I wasn't very subtle in the last few weeks, was I?"

Dean shakes his head, tries a nervous laugh. "Yeah, no."

Sam's hands search for Dean's in the corner of Dean's field of vision. As a result, he pulls his hand farther away, closer to himself. Right now, the place doesn't seem private enough anymore.

A deep, distant sigh from Sam. "... I would ask what you think about it... if I couldn't so clearly see the answer already."

Dean huffs through his nose, makes a face. "It's just not who I am, Sam."

A short, tense silence before, "And yet you get off on every single thing I introduce you to."

Dean faces Sam then; a horrible, horrible mistake. Sam is not exactly Sam. He's a little like the first time on the doorstep of his actual home, a little like at the breakfast table after the first spanking. Hurt but cold. Shy but bold. Those eyes are sad but the thin line of his lips indicates anger.

Dean clears his throat, looks into his lunch again. "I dun, uh. That's..."

"Don't you tell me it's 'different', I dare you, Dean; because it really, ultimately isn't."

More anger. Okay. Dean swallows.

"I don't see the problem you seem to have here." Dean hears his lover sitting back further, hears his suit shifting as he maybe crosses his arms in front of his chest. Yeah. Would match the situation. Sam keeps his voice down, has been keeping it down ever since he started talking. At least that. "Look, Dean, it's simple - you like something or you don't. It has a name, yes, but it doesn't have to have whatever label you think it has. It's might not be conventional but it's _private_ , just between you and I, and you obviously love it. It's what you and I make of it, nothing more and nothing less. So what are you so afraid of?"

There's only one answer Dean has for this. It feels stupid on his tongue, so he has troubles getting it out. Sam doesn't pick up speaking though, is making it clear that he wants an answer and that there is no way out of it. Dean clears his throat again, still cannot look at Sam.

"It's, uh. It... it just doesn't feel right. ... I dunno. Sorry."

More silence.

Dean looks at his grip around the fork, feels his own slacks under his fingers where he keeps his hand out of Sam's reach.

Stupid. All of this is so stupid.

Sam erupts into a wet chuckle eventually, and here, Dean looks up.

Looks straight into Sam's mock-smirking, wet-eyed face. "If you find me so disgusting, why don't you just say so?"

"Jesus, Sam!" God, no. "That's not what I- H-how it..." Dean brings his hidden hand back on the table, slightly reaches out to hint to Sam that he's here now, that they can hold hands in broad uptown daylight with work contracts still on the table - but Sam doesn't move an inch.

Broadest chest. Bulging arms. Iron face. "So, what now, Dean? You want to break up?"

"No! No, god no!" Dean surges closer, now both hands in front of him, between them, panic and guilt forcing from stomach into gullet. He has to remind himself to stay calm, to keep his voice down. It's hard. "Sam, I would _never_ -"

"Well, it can't go on like this," Sam chokes, nods his head once and firm. Decisive. " _I_ can't. And I won't. I can take a lot, but I can't go any further than this."

Somewhere in some restaurant uptown, the heart of Dean Smith earns a new, considerable dent.

Dean Smith feels his throat going tight and Dean Smith feels his eyes burning hot. Dean Smith would like to say something, anything, but he can't.

Sam can. "I respect your boundaries, I really do. You don't want to talk about it; that's fine, okay, I'm not pushing you. You freak out and I take care of you, I hold your hand, I pamper you, I, I let you into my freaking home, my- my _home_ , Dean, where I've only ever taken one single other person except for you, you even know that?!"

Dean wants to say no, no he didn't know that until now. Had guessed something like that but never truly appreciated, never asked. Why had he never asked?

"And then I ask _one_ thing of you," Sam hisses, now leaning over the table, too, "one little thing, and you treat me like I'm some sick fucking freak! Like I'd rape you the first second you turn your back to me!"

The sheer word hits Dean in his stomach like a legit cannon ball. He feels himself going pale, feels his head going light, stomach churning. "I would never think you'd-"

"That makes it even _worse_!" Fury now has overtaken Sam. Clearly. They are alone in the corner of the restaurant, secluded from the rest of the room behind tall aquariums and plants. Sam's voice is low but sharp, quakes slightly with what must be hardly held back tears. Dean can see them. "All your- all those stupid excuses! Always you and your excuses! I thought I had proven myself to you, Dean, I thought we were through with this trust bullcrap! I'm asking you and I'm asking you again and you nod your head and you say 'yeah, sure, fine', and you lie right in my face-" and Sam controlledly but impressively bangs his white-knuckled fist on the table for every next word, "every - fucking - time!"

Dean startles at the unforeseen aggression but manages a weak, "I never lied to you."

Sam bares his teeth with a sneer, rolls his wet wet eyes up and away, sits straight again with one strong move backwards. "If you didn't, well, then I guess I'm just not important enough to you. So maybe we should end it here. I don't see this going anywhere. Not with this frigid obstinacy of yours."

Dean can't say anything.

"I think it's fair to say that I've tried everything. I've opened up to you like I haven't in... ah, forget about it. It's not like you care anyway. You want to stay in that secluded, safe headspace of yours, I get it. You're pissing yourself in horror at the thought that someone eventually might get through to you." Sam looks over at Dean again. The fake smile is still there, the water in Sam's eyes, too. Soft lines on Sam's forehead draw the picture of a deeply moved man. "You never really wanted to be with me in the first place, right? I was convenient. I suggested, you reacted. That's how it is. That's how you _are_." Sam straightens himself, starts digging in his suit jacket for - presumably - his wallet. "If it was funny, y'know, I'd say it was funny, all of this, actually, since you're trying to convince yourself that you're anything _but_ that. But anyway."

"Wait," Dean chokes.

Sam snaps his wallet open, searches for his credit card. "Stop crying, for God's sake. We're in public. You're being pathetic."

Dean almost says he isn't crying but then feels the lonely roll of a tear down his cheek. He wipes it away instantly. "Sam, just- j-just wait a second, I- please-"

The black credit card of Mr. Sam Wesson hits the table. Mr. Sam Wesson gets to his feet in one smooth move and is halfway gone already. Out of grasp. "I'll be outside. If you have anything to say, then I advise to choose your words wisely. I'm out of patience for today. And for you."

Dean is staring up at Sam. Sam is looking down at the carpet.

"Eat that up," Sam snaps, and then he is gone.

Dean Smith's mouth won't quite close for a moment. He wills it so eventually, lets himself sink back into his chair, lets his gaze drop into his halfway finished salad.

What exactly did just happen?

He hurts. A lot. In many different ways. It all sums up to that black hole in the center of his body that screams: you fucked up. You fucked up big time, Mr. Smith, and you have to save this train wreck of a fuck-up now. Whatever the cost. Or you will lose the only crumb of happiness your miserable life happened to attract in ages. Happiness of an extent you don't deserve anyway, yeah, but that's another story.

You need him. You can't let him leave you.

Dean stuffs the salad into his mouth, the papers into his suitcase, his self into some sort of stable composure, offers a smile to the waiter. "He's is on the phone outside," he explains as the credit card with Sam's name is handed back to him.

The guy makes a compassionate face, leans a little closer. "Must be a hard to spend so much time with your boss outside of actual work."

Dean feels himself blink, feels his smile fading, switching into something else. "No," he hears himself say, "not at all, actually."

Sam is facing away, eyes the street when Dean exits the restaurant. He has his hands in the pockets of his slacks and his shoulders tense. Dean feels like limping. _Don't be pathetic_.

A few steps closer and Sam must be aware of him now, must. But isn't turning around. Avoids him. Ignores him. But is aware. Aware is enough.

"You're right," Dean begins.

No reaction. A car is speeding by, three others honk in return. Sam's hair sways in the wind.

"I'm... I know I'm making bad excuses. I know I should be more grateful. That I should appreciate you more, Sam. I know I should." He clutches his briefcase harder. "And I know this starts out as another bad excuse, but... it isn't. I'm not trying to make myself look better in your eyes. I have flaws. I'm not saying I don't. I just know that-"

Another speeder, police sirens, honking. Dean's heart beats faster, or, well, starts beating again at all at the slightest turn of Sam's face towards him. Or close to him. Just a little is enough.

"-I know that I want to be with you. And that I want to make you happy."

Dean can hear Sam's deep exhale over all the traffic. The wind whips into Dean's face, upturns his hair more than some, but that's alright. That's not important.

"I hope you'll give me another chance," Dean breathes, "to show my gratitude. For all that you've done for me. What you've given me. For all the trust. So please." He licks his lips, makes another step. Broad daylight. Work day. Everybody could be watching them. Careful but not too distant. God, it's hard. "Please, Sam. Let's not end it. Not here. Not like this."

Sam Wesson turns around to face Mr. Smith who is just another office sitter in a slightly fancy suit, with slowly thinning hair and wrinkles under and next to his eyes, his forehead, practically everywhere. Mr. Smith is nothing special. Mr. Smith is another small fish in a glass bowl. Sharks don't have much business with goldfish.

Sam Wesson's eyes are bottomless, the flutter of his lashes an entire novel for Dean to read.

Sam Wesson doesn't have to raise his voice over the traffic. He knows Dean will strain his ears to hear him.

"My loft. Ten PM. Don't be late."

Dean Smith just received benediction.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to say that it is an immense joy and thrill to get this particular chapter out on Good Friday. Halleluja.  
> Enjoy!

Straightened back, eyes on his wristwatch. Dean follows the second hand to the full minute which is a full hour also. Ten PM. He gave up trying to control his breathing hours ago. Now he's just exhausted, thrilled, uncertain. At ten PM sharp, he knocks. The door opens immediately.

Sam's scent makes Dean want to sigh, makes him want to hug the man in the wide space between door and doorframe. But he can't. He's not sure if he should. Sam eyes him rather coldly. No. Better not to hug. Dean swallows.

"Come in."

Dean does. Sam closes the door behind him, shows the way. No need to talk about that; it comes naturally. The TV is running but is muted. Sam walks up to the coffee table where a lonely glass and a bottle of their favorite whiskey are placed. Sam takes a sip and doesn't offer any to Dean. Dean isn't surprised.

The glass finds its place back on the table. "So you came," Sam observes with his eyes still on his fingers, still on the glass.

Dean's cue. "Of course."

"You say that like it's so obvious."

"It is," Dean insists. He dares another step. "I told you I wanted to-"

"Stop talking."

Dean does. Stands still. Doesn't move an inch.

"You came here, knowing what I expect. From you. From our relationship. Knowing that I want things you say you are not... what was the word? That 'don't feel right' to you. And yet you're here."

Dean doesn't say anything. He drops his gaze to the floor. Something like embarrassment burns at the back of his throat.

Sam comes into motion. He paces in slow circles around Dean, like a predator.

"How come, Dean? What changed your mind? Is loneliness really so terrifying that you'd rather get it on with a pervert like me? With a _freak_?"

Dean wants to protest; no, he never said that. Something makes it clear though that any kind of talk from him is neither wanted nor needed right now. He keeps his eyes on the floor, his hands next to his hips. Waiting.

"Earlier, you said you wanted to make me 'happy'. What do you think you could do to make a freak like me 'happy', Dean? Answer, but think before you speak. We both now you're awfully smart. Don't waste that talent."

Dean blinks alive. He thinks of the articles, the discussion threads. Vocabulary. "You want me to be your submissive."

"That is correct," Sam shoots from Dean's left. "What else do I want from you, Dean?"

A slower blink. Painful. "Y-you want to. To fuck me."

"Where do I want to fuck you?"

"In my." Swallow. "In my ass."

"Another correct answer. See? I knew you were smart." Sam speaks close to Dean's ear. Dean keeps staring at the floor. "So. You're here. You know what I want. Does that equal to your consent for both of those issues?"

Dean's chest pulls tight. It takes several seconds to put together the letters. It's not like he has much of a choice but... it's still terribly hard. "... Yes."

"Wrong."

Dean looks up at that in confusion (wasn't that what Sam wanted to hear?), finds Mr. Wesson watching him.

"Although it might be a generous offer, I don't see much appeal in it. Don't get me wrong here, Dean." Sam takes his whiskey into his hand, has a lazy draught, takes the glass with him. Offers it to Dean who stares at it, at Sam, back at it. Sam nods, extends his arm a little further. "I have no interest in forcing you into something you don't enjoy. You know me. I think it's clear that I am not one to get off on cruelty."

A hesitant hand comes up between their bodies to accept the drink. Under Sam's eyes, Dean takes a small sip. It burns. The familiar taste somehow doesn't have its usual calming effect. But how could it?

"Your pleasure," Sam drawls, "is my most important objective. And your pleasure multiplies mine. Considerably. They call it a 'win-win situation', I believe."

The glass leaves Dean again. He drops his once more task-less arm.

"Not much has to change, Dean. Almost nothing, in fact. We're on a good way. You are making excellent progress. I know what you like. What you _need_. You are very receptive. You are perfect."

Sam steps closer into Dean's space. Close enough for Dean to feel body heat that isn't his own, despite not touching each other. Dean forces himself to keep up the eye contact. Every second Sam has his eyes on him, on him and nowhere else, is so very precious after being so close to losing him. Still close.

 _This is a negotiation_ , Dean thinks.

Sam is close enough to taste. Dean has to blink a sigh away. The thin gap between them seems to draw him in. A force field.

Sam's eyelids flutter, too. "I am so glad that you came." A soft whisper.

A softer arm, then two, around Dean's back. A head finds its place against Dean's neck.

Dean eyes drift shut. His chest swells wide. He eventually and shyly reciprocates the hug.

His temple fits so neatly on Sam's shoulder. When Sam doesn't push him off, Dean pulls him tighter against his body, allows himself a shaky exhale. Screws his eyes closed. Inhales deeply. Sam.

"I wouldn't know what I'd do without you, pet," Sam mutters.

 _Pet_. It feels like ages since Sam called him by the stupid nickname. Dean didn't know he craved it until he hears it again. Heaviness settles in on him, presses him deeper into Sam's arms.

Sam strokes his back with the hand that isn't still holding the glass. "I want to make you happy, too. I want to give you all you could ever wish for. But for that, you have to _let_ me, pet."

Dean makes a weak sound at the back of his throat - Sam is slowly pulling them apart again. He doesn't want to part, not yet, just another moment, another century. He keeps his arms clutched around Sam, keeps his eyes closed as stubborn as a child, tenses at the slide of hands up his neck, his cheeks. The cold whiskey glass in the one and Sam's palm in the other, two soft thumbs follow the lines of his cheekbones.

Sam rests their foreheads against each other. Dean can feel Sam's breath ghosting across his mouth.

"I need you to trust me," Sam whispers. "I need that, you hear me? You have to let me in. It's the only way. Trust me. I'm not gonna hurt you. I've never have and I never would. You have to trust me."

A bolder exhale against Dean's mouth. He tenses but doesn't dare to move, stares against the insides of his eyelids. His pulse is making him vibrate against Sam, against the floor. A steady, blood-filled rhythm.

"Trust me entirely. Completely."

Eyelashes catch against Dean's cheek.

"Give me all of you."

Dean breathes, "Yes."

Sam kisses him like it's the first time. Like Dean is raw and vulnerable and scared again, about to run away, to rip himself bloody on barbed wire and himself. Dean clearly knows he isn't like that anymore. Dean clearly knows he is is absolutely like that, still, forever. Especially now.

Slow moves, pauses in between heavy foreheads, a little sweaty, a little damp from their combined, close breathing. Dean needs this right now and Sam knows. Of course Sam knows. Sam always knows what's best for Dean. It's always been like this, right from the start.

Yes. Yes. He can do this.

For Sam, Dean can do this.

"You have no idea how much this means to me, do you?"

Sam's smile feels sad and whiskey-deep against the side of Dean's mouth. Dean kisses it better after shaking his head, after telling Sam that no, no he doesn't, and he starts to appreciate what he's given now, starts with it right away and asks Sam to tell him, please tell him just how much it means.

Sam melts into his arms like a flame-heavy candle.

"I am gonna take care of you," Sam promises; nothing more but headless, heart-full whispers. "I will love you like nobody loved you before. Like nobody _I_ loved before. We will be so good, pet. We will be perfect together."

Squeezing Sam to his heart, love and blood pulsing behind his eyes, Dean wheezes his agreement in three letters.

They hold and kiss, kiss and hold. Dean gets his fill and more, is flying by the time he realizes Sam is walking them to the couch; Dean forward and himself backwards. Slow steps to the side, half a circle, and Dean is placed on the backrest, smothered in kisses and hands, strands of hair. He holds on to Sam's neck as long as he can, until it slips out of his grasp, and is left shaking and alone.

Sam stands between his legs, looks down at Dean in pure devotion. Hands him the whiskey after one last draught for himself. Dean takes it with gratitude. Sam's long fingers bring his hair back over his head, out of his eyes. Dean drinks and watches Sam, cherishes the hand on top of his thigh, one thumb brushing along the crease between leg and crotch.

"God," Sam rasps. His hand tugs on his face as it drifts down the length of it. Dean watches with alit cheeks. "If we were over at my place, pet... The things I'd do to you right now..."

Sam's place. The other place. With bed posts and lavender curtains, with books and Sam's heart on a plate.

Dean cranes his neck. "We could get a cab. You could call John."

"God, don't make me," Sam groans, rubs his face again, harder, inches closer against Dean. Unable to stay away, too, maybe. Dean's heart throbs. "No, I... I want to do this right. We can't rush this. _I_ can't rush this. We'll work ourselves into it bit by bit, just like we've already been doing it, just like I promised. Just like before. Step by step."

The glass is empty and Dean feels like wetting his lips. A rabbit-flutter of nervousness bubbles up in his throat despite honey and oak. "I... So... You won't...?"

"No. Not tonight," Sam smiles immediately, shakes his head; perfectly aware of how the sentence would have continued. A hand comes up to thumb at Dean's cheek. "I don't want you to do it only because you feel like you have to. That's not what I'm after."

 _I want you to want it yourself_ , Sam doesn't say. But Dean hears it. Knows it. It's perfectly clear. A fact.

He won't ever possibly be able to pull that off. Everything, but not _this_. Hint of panic. Swallow it down.

Sam will get you there, he reminds himself. All slow. All patient. Just like he always does. It'll eventually be okay. You'll be fine.

Dean puts his free hand over the bulge in Sam's slacks and gives a gentle squeeze while he keeps his eyes on Sam's face - watches the flicker in those eyes, the first and never finished half of a blink. Curl of lips. Dean smiles right along.

"What do you want with that, sweetheart? You're just gonna hurt yourself."

Dean squeezes harder just to make Sam's face light up, to make him gasp. "Haven't hurt myself with it in a while now, if remember correctly, sir."

Both their faces heat up at that. Maybe Dean's a little more. Wasn't exactly intentional, no. But then again... it wasn't hard, either. Yeah. Yeah, he'll wrap his mind around this.

Sam's smile grows into a grin at the now constant move of flat palm over his clothed cock. A soft rock into Dean's hand. Yeah. That's it. Relax. Forget all the fighting. Forget the fuck-up, Dean's ugly, major fuck-up. Don't think about ungratefulness and careless past.

"Do you want it to hurt you?"

Dean's cheeks burn. In a moment of sudden embarrassment, he shakes his head, pulls his mouth into a slight pout.

"No, right? It's not there to hurt you, is it? It's your favorite. And you're its favorite, too."

Soft fingers over the back of Dean's neck; a mock-retell of Dean's firmly moving hand. Sam's right goes for the zipper, pulls himself away under Dean's fingers and, after thumbing his underwear down, out.

"There you go."

Dean grabs it by the base, only softly so he would need another joint in his fingers to close them to a ring. Slow drift up and down. What once made bile rise in his throat now makes his mouth water.

Things change like that. It happens all the time, to everyone, in every sort of situation.

Things change.

"I want it in my mouth," Dean announces.

"Of course," Sam replies.

It's nothing they discussed beforehand, not particularly how they use to do it, but it works just as well: Sam takes a wide step back, Dean follows, drops to his knees one by one, bends down to place the glass on the floor, keeps the slow rhythm of his hand working. Straightening himself again, Dean licks his lips in anticipation, has to swallow already. Eyes closed, loose, he leans in and feeds Sam's dick between his lips. Easy. Comfortable. Yes. He loves this.

Since they slightly differ in height and since Sam's legs are miles long, Dean can't sit back on his haunches completely without any tension at all if he still wants to be able to reach Sam's dick. Back straight, neck stretched, chin a little lifted - but that's a reasonable price for comfort. Dean keeps one hand on top of his thigh. He could palm himself, feels his dick stirring at the buzz of the situation, but he doesn't. At least not yet. No. This is about Sam. Appreciation. Gratitude. Maybe a little showing off from Dean's side, okay, but really only as a secondary effect.

Sam is not moving, lets Dean go at his pace. He does that whenever he has the patience to, when it's a lazy, carefree part of the day with enough time to work with. The fact that he grants this to Dean now, after telling him those endless, painful hours ago that he's done, that he's sick of Dean's constant complaints - it's marvelous. Dean rolls his tongue like he means it _because_ he means it. Everything. Every single word.

A soft sound because it's good, because Dean is in love with the way Sam's cock forces his lips wide, with the sweet bump of glans against palate, tongue, back of throat. He fucks his mouth down Sam's cock because Sam deserves it. Deserves every drop of sweat, every trickle of spit. Dean's hand works the part he can't get down just yet but his lips are catching up. Like racing himself. Bobbing his head, thinking of nothing, being nothing, nothing but for Sam, all for Sam.

When Dean Smith makes a promise, he keeps it.

Sam's fingers scratch into Dean's hair, the top of his head, the sides; catch on his ears when he surges forward. Dean runs hot with these touches, the shivers they send down his spine. His back goes even straighter, his determination even more frantic.

Sam hums his approval when Dean kisses the grip of his own fingers. Dean lifts off with it.

His body is warm. Nothing more, nothing less. He's moving; he's faintly aware of that, but how and why is of no concern. Sam is in him, on him, everywhere.

That's what counts.

Sam pulls out of the bottom of Dean's throat eventually, one hand firm in Dean's hair and Dean can't feel the other one on him. The loss leaves him empty, stretched wide, wet. Suddenly overcome by the urge to cough, Dean can barely stop it, brings the back of his hand up to shield Sam's presumably expensive clothing from more spit. Dean tastes come. Oh.

He groans once he can and it comes out troubled. One hand wipes generously across his mouth and chin, the other rubs knuckles into tearing eyes. They barely want to open at the burn, but Dean has them ready eventually. Sniffs. Sniffs again. Wipes his nose with the back of his mouth-hand. Rubs at his eyes again.

Something dripping and heavy slaps him across his cheek. "Clean up," Dean hears. Sam sounds exhausted but happy. Delirious. Dean concludes he did good.

He takes it into his mouth again, has it held out by the pinch of Sam's fingers. Almost makes Sam's cock appear still perfectly hard. Dean slurps at it until only a thin film of saliva clings to it. It's withdrawn from him then and he sits back on his haunches. Dropping both hands in his lap, he sighs deeply, coughs again, sniffs again. The couch in his back is solid, soothing. He feels like he just ran a marathon. In a good way.

While Dean is still drifting, he listens to Sam helping himself to another glass of whiskey. Clink of glass on glass. Sloshing of liquid. Glass lifting, a quiet sip, a satisfied exhale. Steps. Sam is still wearing his shoes. Dean curls his toes and yeah, he is, too. He blinks up where his lover appears, his beautiful, beautiful man; hair a little unkempt, first few buttons of shirt undone, sleeves of shirt rolled up. Long fingers hold the glass by its upper edge, veins visible, casting shadows.

Sam observes him from up there, has another sip.

Dean feels good. Nothing else. Sam is here and Sam said he'll stay with Dean, so all is well. Dean feels good. Very good.

A soft nudge from shoe to Dean's outstretched leg, a small smile mainly due to exhaustion. "And now? What about you, pet? Need me to do something?"

Dean chuckles rather wetly, chuckles more as he touches his throat from the outside. Feels turned inside out. Sounds like it, too. Shit. He has a phone conference tomorrow.

Sam huffs along with him, cocks his head to the side. "No? You good?"

Dean closes his eyes as he vocalizes what he can from a, "Uh-huh."

He's brought into the bedroom some unknown way, can't recall undressing but suddenly he's there, blankets pulled up to his chin, Sam softly stroking Dean's freshly washed and blow-dried (... what?) hair from Dean's forehead.

Dean settles into the situation like he ought to: giving a contented sound, leaning into Sam's touch. Sleep. Sleep is good. His mouth tastes like mint. Good.

"I'll take care of everything tomorrow," Sam whisper-hums from inside the pillows. Far off. Right next to Dean's ear. "It's gonna be great. You'll see, pet. You'll see." Dean mutters something (he thinks) and Sam presses a kiss between his tightly shut eyes. "Now sleep."

Dean does.

~ 

Sam wakes him with kisses. The day starts a little delayed after surely twenty minutes of snuggling, smooching, happy sighing. From both sides. It's very intimate. Dean cannot remember that Sam ever was this affection-starved before. Yesterday's lunch still bright in his mind, Dean dwells in every single second of their closeness.

It's hard to part for work. Some hours in, Dean's mind finally starts to clear again. In a spare moment between two appointments, he recalls the past night. His heart stumbles as Dean remembers the things he agreed to, the unknown and therefore horrifying elements that are about to become reality. For him, them. He has to shake his head to ground himself mentally, then nods to himself. Come to peace with it. Everything is fine. Sam is right, you enjoyed everything so far. He won't push you. Like you two have been doing it ever since: slowly, controlled, step by step. Yes. Yes. You are doing so fine. Look at you! You can do this. No doubt.

He is wearing one of Sam's borrowed aka "gifted" suits (Dean brings them to the dry cleaners, yes, but their place is at Sam's). There are two of those at the loft and... a whole lot more at the flat. Dean hasn't dared to count them yet. They are all excellent, tailored from scratch or at least modified luxury brand items. Not a single piece from the rack. Dean wears his cufflinks, too (naturally), and feels almost too fancy. An objective look into the mirror tells him he's dressed perfectly fine, maybe even a little too professional, too minimalistic. The clothes' quality though says it all; even laymen can tell. Dean has salad without dressing because the thought of vinegar on mulberry silk gives him a heart attack.

Sam dusts off Dean's shoulder once they're in the limousine, corrects his tie, runs a hand over Dean's chest and follows with his eyes. "I really like this one on you," he mentions, and Dean's belly heats up comfortably. He made the right choice. He did good.

Tonight's place is unusual. They drove quite a while out of town. It's all golf course and three inch grass blades here. Dean cranes his neck to look up at the building in all its glory - and how glorious it is. Late nineteenth century, facade bold in its opulence. Suddenly, Dean doesn't feel out of place in his expensive suit at all.

Unlike their usual spots, the concierge here doesn't react very much to Sam's presence. Could be because the reservation is in Dean's name. Oh. Dean follows with his hands in his pockets, feels like a child in the midst of all the rather old guests. Heavy wood in here, dark and almost suffocating, all the way up the walls, the ceiling. The rooms are incredibly crowded, stuffed with elegant furniture and old men in suits. Cigar and pipe smoke curls up into the air, reaches the chandeliers.

Dean leans in closer to Sam while they walk behind the concierge. "Are we at a country club, Sam?"

"We are at a country club, Dean," the answer comes.

"Uhm... alright," Dean shrugs, keeps on walking. Sam turns to the front again immediately. Enough privacy to explore everything Dean's eyes can make out despite their busy walking pace.

Of course - and Dean shouldn't exactly be surprised anymore - they are assigned to a private room. Dean walks in first and lets his eyes wander, strains his ears though when Sam addresses the concierge. "Was everything arranged as I instructed it?"

"Of course, sir."

"Excellent." Sam's hand vanishes into his jacket's pocket, comes back with a rarely seen thing - cash. "This," Sam hums, peels several bills from the wad in his hand, offers it to the man, "is a down payment. I wish not to be disturbed this evening. At all. No knocking, no yelling in the corridor, no nothing. If you take care of it as I just asked you to do it, you'll get the rest. Are we clear?"

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir."

The bills travel from hand to hand to back pocket of pants. "Good," Sam decides. The rest of the money disappears to where it came from. "We won't stay for too long. An hour, maybe two. Do your best."

"Of course, sir."

With that, the door closes.

Dean finds himself in the middle of a room with Sam, alone, somewhere on the outskirts of town, surrounded by classic cars and Cuban cigars. CS, his home, even Sam's flat - it all seems so distant from here. Dean's hand is still on the end table he had to touch; the polished wood was just too darling, too tempting.

Dean finds himself honestly surprised at the lack of a turning key in a door lock.

Both of Sam's hands are in his slacks' pockets. He isn't smirking but calm, almost mischievous looking with his eyes this wide, his chin a little lowered. He is looking at Dean, then a little to the left, nods. Dean follows the line of sight and finds a bottle and two glasses next to a vase holding an overflowing bouquet.

"Help yourself," Dean hears. "It's our favorite. Can you believe they didn't have it on their list? I had to bring it myself. It's a shame with this place."

"And yet you brought us here," Dean smirks. He uncaps the bottle and pours for two.

"Fingers caught in the cookie jar" smile. "Yeah. Still can't really believe it myself."

"What's with this place?" Dean hands one glass to Sam who takes it politely. They clink glasses in a passing gesture; it's been done too many times by now to still make a big deal out of it. The room is much more interesting. Dean spins around again as soon as he can in order to keep examining. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you turned into some seventy-year-old fart overnight."

Sam follows him through the room but leaves quite the distance between them. "I wanted something special for today."

"You're so romantic," Dean grins, doesn't mean it and means it at the same time. Sam smiles right back; caught. If he hadn't seen the same style of bouquet in rooms they passed by on their way, Dean wouldn't joke like he is. Sam is not the flower type after all. The whiskey, though, is Sam's analogy, and Dean appreciates it with a slick mouthful.

He sinks down on a sturdy office desk, the same style as the interior of the entire place. Too kitschy for their taste, sure, but the decadent atmosphere _does_ have its very own appeal. Eyes up to Sam, legs extended in front of him and sitting back on the table, Dean feels unexpectedly comfortable. The whiskey adds to the already-there warmth in his core.

"What's the occasion?" he breathes. Oh, he thinks he knows all too well. But he wants to hear it from Sam.

"Hmmm." Saw chuckles, makes wide, lazy steps until he is right in front of Dean, smirks into his glass. Shuts his eyes for a sip. Dean could watch Sam's throat all day. "You mean apart from having _you_... the most stunning man in all of America's beautiful fifty states... right here with me? By my side?"

"Stop it," Dean laughs, burns, lets his head droop forward so Sam cannot see the red spreading on his face like a wildfire. He keeps on smiling to himself, chuckles again at the hand that steals itself in his field of vision. Dean entwines his fingers with Sam's, lets them rest in his lap like that, and it's perfect.

They say nothing for a while, just Sam standing and Dean sitting, holding whiskey and hands. The promise of soft music from a few rooms over can only be heard when they are completely silent like this. Dean decides for leaning closer to Sam though, rests his head against a chest he knows a heart is beating inside of - for him.

A kiss is pressed into the crown of Dean's hair and makes his smile grow once more. "Let's sit down for a moment."

"Sure."

They let go of each other's hand and while Dean sinks into the nearby chair, he notices Sam circling the desk instead. A heavy chair is pulled back. Sam takes a seat.

Dean blinks across the desk, at Sam's neatly folded hands in front of him, the soft smile on his lover's lips. Somehow, this is awkward. Highly so.

Oh. He realizes - chokes a strange laugh, gestures between the two of them, corrects his chair's position so that they sit directly opposite to each other. "This, we - we, we sat like this before! The first time we met; when I applied for my job!"

"That is correct," Mr. Wesson smiles.

Dean laughs some more, puts his drink aside to place both elbows on the desk.

"To be honest with you: if it wasn't so terribly tricky to sneak in unnoticed, we would be in that very same office now, Dean."

Dean's amusement leaves him. "Uhm," he starts, eyebrows quirking, upper lip curling in confusion, "wh... what is this here supposed to...?"

They keep up eye contact all the while Sam slowly reaches down to his right and languidly opens a drawer. Dean hears papers rustling, and then the drawer closes again.

Sam smiles.

Dean doesn't.

When Sam's hand reappears into sight, he is holding a set of papers. Said set of papers finds its way in between the two of them on top of the desk. Sam's fingers span wide and gently push into Dean's direction. Then, the hand withdraws.

Dean looks down to read. He reads the first few letters, lines.

He looks up at Sam.

Sam is still smiling.

Dean still isn't. "This is a joke. Right? Sam?"

Sam's smile widens.

Dean's eyes drop back down. More letters.

"I prefer the term... 'game', if you will."

"This is... this..." Dean flips the first page. More. He flips more, more. "How- how many-"

"You'll find the page numbers in the bottom right corner, Mr. Smith."

"This-" Six. Six pages. He flips back to page one, unable to take any more than that, to acknowledge that there _is_ more. Mr. Smith's hand goes for his own forehead to support it. He feels a little under the weather right now, blinks against shy, dancing lights. "This- I-"

"You agreed last night, if I may remind you."

"Y-yeah, but- but this, this is..."

"It's a mere written acknowledgement of our agreement, Mr. Smith."

"No, Sam, this is, there are- there are-" He hurriedly flips through the pages. "- _twenty-four_! Twenty-four clauses on, on-on-on, on how t-t-to, a-a-a-and- An appendix, too?! What-" Page-turning goes hand in hand with stomach-turning. Dean's eyes are trained on scanning texts for key information, after all.

"Mr. Smith, please." A gentle hand to Mr. Smith's forearm. He flinches under the unwanted attention, pulls back, sits straighter, tries a calmer breath. Doesn't look up at Mr. Wesson. "There is no need to be upset. Relax. Have a drink. We are in no rush here. Take your time, read, and in case you have any questions, I am here to answer them for you."

Breath rushes from Dean. Okay. Stay calm. Don't panic. Don't say something stupid. This is all batshit crazy, sure, but this is somehow important to Sam. He set all of this up just to have you read... this? _Sign_ this? And it's important to him, obviously, so pay some respect and at least _try_ to take it seriously. At least on the outside, for god's sake. At least _try_ to.

"Okay," Mr. Smith mutters, wipes his forehead again, nods without agreement. "Gimme a... gimme a minute."

"Of course," Mr. Wesson says from somewhere Dean doesn't look up at.

Dean reads in silence. Eventually, he frowns, shakes his head to himself and to what he has in front of himself.

"Is there something bothering you?"

"This is… under no circumstances legal. Any of this." Dean turns the page. Reads more. "'Indefinite duration'?" More shaking of head. "Sam... This... I..."

A slender forefinger points to clause five. "Not indefinite per se."

 _Null and void_ , the line reads. Dean's eyes dart over the words. "In case of... in case of what?"

The finger travels higher, taps. "Here. Violation of safety procedures. And, of course, if the matter of the contract itself ceases to exist."

"You mean," Dean mumbles, "in case we break up."

"Yes," Mr. Wesson hums.

An alien heat. An unknown panic. It starts taking over Dean, his senses, his perception. Despite the drink, Dean is perfectly sober, perfectly dizzy. His eyes are swimming in their sockets. His chest feels warm.

The clear premonition that he is about to lose something important, one way or the other, starts settling in.

All there seems left to do is picking his poison.

He hears the chair opposite to him creak softly as Mr. Wesson presumably rearranges his position. "It's a lot to take in all at once. I completely understand."

Dean Smith keeps staring at the words. He hopes for them to dissolve, to set back into different words, hopes for the entire scene here to be a prank, a joke, everything but what he knows is, in fact, real. He is trying, really, he is.

Submissive. The Dominant. The Dominant. The Dominant. Safety. Safe. Serve. Safe. The Submissive shall. Appendix one. The Submissive shall not. The Submissive shall. Appendix two. Yellow. Red.

Dean's breath explodes from him in a desperate sigh. He buries his face in both of his palms and keeps it there. Just for a moment. Just to regain his composure. Just another second.

Opposite to him, he hears a chair moving over heavy carpet, hears Mr. Wesson getting up, walking. His boss is coming to a halt behind Mr. Smith, puts one hand first and the second one later down on Dean's shoulders. Gives a faint squeeze. Edges his thumbs against Dean's neck. If it wasn't so very soothing, Mr. Smith would definitely withdraw from any touch right now.

"You are a highly intelligent man, Mr. Smith. Just like me. I think a written contract helps to sort things out. To make things more clear, more... tangible for you. A guideline like this is a very helpful tool, especially in the beginning where we still struggle to remember everything ourselves. Isn't it much easier to have something to keep coming back to? To have it right there, accessible and all written down?" The squeeze has become a slow, soft massage by now. Mr. Wesson speaks in a low voice while he is slightly bowed to be closer to Mr. Smith's ear. "This provides stability. Security. We need this. _I_ need this. The both of us do, pet."

Mr. Smith, who hasn't spoken in an awful long amount of time, who feels weak and soaked, drained, is only staying upright due to the caring hands on his shoulders. If anything, he wants to shove the damn papers away. But he can't do that. Shoving the papers away would equal to shoving Sam away, too. Sam's interests. Sam in general.

Firm hands, warm breath. Graze of long, silky hair on Dean's ear. "Would you be so kind to read the second clause out loud?"

Dean has to drop his arms to be able to read. It's hard without his glasses though. His vision has been blurry for the most part of this conversation. "'The fundamental purpose of this contract is to create a... safe, clearly defined and satisfactory basis for the long-term relationship between the two parties.'"

"Exactly. That's all there is to it - a guarantee for safety. You said it yourself: this contract is barely legal. In this country, whatsoever."

Mr. Smith's hand finds his forehead again and wipes through the accumulated sweat it finds there while his left faintly flicks through the first few pages once more. The words are still there.

"It says you're gonna discipline me," Dean murmurs.

A chuckle from behind him. "Naturally so, pet."

Dean cringes. His forefinger runs across clause fifteen-five. He swallows. "'For their own personal enjoyment, or for any other reason, which they are not obliged to provide'... I... This is..."

A cautious voice whispers somewhere close to Dean's ear, "I think at this point, the matter of 'trust'... between the two of us, Mr. Smith, has been discussed at lengths, hasn't it?"

Dean's chest clenches. "... Yes, sir."

"If I remember it correctly, we discussed it just yesterday."

"Yes, sir."

"Shall we discuss it again, pet?"

Heavy swallow. "No, sir."

"Very well," Mr. Wesson states. Hands lift off of Dean's shoulders, leave him drained and by himself. Mr. Wesson walks back around the desk, reclaims his seat, has a sip from his drink which he sets back on the table when he is done. "So. Are we ready, Mr. Smith?"

Dean wants to protest. His brain comes up with a possibility. "Shouldn't I… shouldn't I at least… Won't there be negotiations of some sort…?"

"I wouldn't see why that is necessary," Mr. Wesson states, reaches for the pocket of his suit jacket. "Is there anything missing according to your judgement?"

"I… I don't…"

"I'll take that as a 'no', then." Mr. Wesson sounds unimpressed.

Dean is unable to move. He has his arms on the desk, his eyes on the contract. His feet are on the ground and the door is unlocked. He could just walk away. Leave this place, these papers, these words. This man.

He can't possibly leave.

If Dean looked up, he would see Mr. Wesson watching him, would see the pen that gently dances in between long, slim fingers.

Eventually, Dean hears, "In case you have any more reservations about this agreement of ours, Mr. Smith…"

Dean Smith keeps his eyes casted down. A pen appears in his field of vision as it is gently pushed towards him, on top of the papers.

"… I'd propose a... what do they call it? 'Time-out'," Mr. Wesson drawls, "for you to sort out your thoughts."

One second.

Two.

"It could definitely be arranged, Mr. Smith," Mr. Wesson whispers.

Three.

Dean Smith gets a hold of the pen, uncaps it and watches its tip curling his name, slow but steady and right on top of the thin, clear line.

The pen is placed aside, its cap put back on.

Dean Smith folds his hands in front of himself and looks up at Sam Wesson.

Mr. Wesson doesn't smile as he looks at Dean, neither when he casts his gaze down at the contract. The pen is picked up. Dean hears it scratching but keeps his eyes on Mr. Wesson, watches him write and then look at the outcome for a while. A long while. Maybe looks at their names so close together. Thinks they look neat. Thinks they look perfect.

Dean considers that maybe, Sam Wesson has more ways to smile than with his mouth alone.

Sam Wesson sighs the sigh of a man who hasn't taken a deep, real breath in a very long time. Then, he grabs his glass, brings it to Dean's, and raises it up in the air between them. "We should drink to this," he suggests.

The promise of whiskey-dizziness lures Dean right in, and so they drink. In silence and for quite a while, too. Not their record mileage, not with the intention to stay sober, either. Strangely enough, it's not a tensed silence - Dean might _feel_ tense (close to panic), yes, a prominent buzzing in his head; but they, Sam and him, seem dipped into some sort of pool. Like in a dream where you run and run and run but your body won't listen, won't move correctly. Dean feels like this. Like drowning. If he could speak, it would be to thank Sam for refilling his glass with this much duty. No matter how generous Dean takes his mouthfuls, his glass never seems to be empty when he puts it to his mouth.

Sam takes his hand at some point. Their fingers snake together, and Dean holds on, watches them; this artsy bundle of digits. Tiny body parts, fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. In a way magical. Dean becomes aware of the coldness of his own fingers, of their stiffness. He curls and clenches, drinks. Sam watches their fingers together with Dean.

They decide to leave without finishing the bottle. Dean watches Sam's hand going for the whiskey, their favorite, and he watches the last third of the bottle sloshing down on the pretty flowers. Petals rip themselves loose, get carried away. The bottle makes a decisive sound on the now flooded end table. Sam is still holding Dean's hand.

Sam eyes the mess he made with an indifferent expression. His suit jacket is slightly bulging where he pocketed the contract and he doesn't say another word, doesn't bid the room farewell; their little makeshift office, the poor flowers. Dean doesn't let them out of sight until Sam has dragged him away too far, around a corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are interested in reading the contract: [here you go](http://hellhoundsprey.tumblr.com/post/141675328134/the-contract-between-mr-wesson-and-mr-smith-as).


	13. Chapter 13

Their hands let go as soon as they are out of the privacy of the room. A natural gesture, just like the clicking of glasses. Sam thanks and pays the concierge for his efforts. Dean stands, waits, thinks of nothing. The whiskey is still prominent on his tongue, his gums. A nice emptiness. He inhales deep to ground himself in the smoke-heavy atmosphere. Here and now. Find your peace. All is well.

Dean climbs into the limousine first, eager to escape the night air. He feels like shivering anyway and is not ready for oxygen, for a reminder of his exhaustion. His head is easy to drop into his hand, his back to curl. Eyes already drifted shut, he feels Sam settling in next to him, the car door falling closed, the rustling of paper. Ah, the damn paper.

Sam's body is warm where it presses against Dean's, wedges him in between door and Sam, and Dean turns his head towards the first, feels himself being overtaken by heat. Sam kisses Dean's temple, puts a hand on Dean's thigh. Dean thinks he makes a sound, something low and secret, and he curls in tighter on himself as if it was capable of protecting him.

"It's okay, pet."

Sam's voice goes deep, is so familiar and pleasant. Dean tries hard to be receptive to it, forces his shoulders lax, rolls them backwards, exposes another inch of neck like this. Sam's nose brushes over it immediately.

"You're okay. This is okay. You have nothing to be afraid of. Just like we discussed. Step by step. We'll work ourselves into it. All you have to do is relax and let me handle everything."

They end up at number fifty. Of course they do. Dean feels the soft churn of betrayal somewhere in his guts despite expecting the location. He thinks of the toothbrush he has here, of the hair products and the suits. Craning his neck to stare up at the windows, he is telling himself that in a way, this is his home, too. Sam brings his arm around Dean's shoulders to guide him into the building. The limousine is driving away, leaving its receding engine sound in Dean's perception.

The stairs stretch impossibly high. Dean is sweating again by the time they reach the correct floor, and when Sam curls Dean's fingers around the door key, whispers to Dean, "Would you do us the honor, pet?" Dean almost breaks. Almost exclaims that no, no, he can't, he doesn't want to.

Instead, he swallows, forces his breath calm, squeezes his eyes to chase away the blurriness. Then, he fits the key into its destined home, turns, opens the door.

They step inside. Dean's body sighs at the well-known scents, at the faint glimmer of gold on the walls thanks to moonlight falling in from an opened bedroom. Dean hears Sam hanging his jacket up the coatrack. Again: rustling of paper. Dean swallows and doesn't find any power to move.

Gentle hands reach around Dean's chest to undo the button on his suit jacket. "Let me help you with this," Sam hums as he does exactly that. "Take off your shoes and go to the living room."

Dean moves and leaves his shoes next to the door. The corridor seems shorter than before, crowded and narrow, and the flowers seem to mock Dean as he makes his way. Seem to stare. Dean feels naked despite wearing his clothes.

As he comes to a halt in the middle of the room, next to the sofa, Sam catches up on him, passes him as he says, "Take off your clothes," sets a few things Dean doesn't have a look at on the coffee table, then leaves the room again. Dean trembles but goes for the buttons of his shirt, hears keys jingling, a door opening. He cranes his neck to see even though he doesn't have to. He knows perfectly well which room Sam is getting his things together in. Maybe he does it to punish himself, to force himself to accept that this is happening. This is taking place. And he said yes. Put his name under it, too. He drops his gaze down his body, to the tips of his socked toes. His fingers are shaking.

Sam drapes himself around Dean like a heavy coat, like fur, makes Dean jump in the suddenness and intensity of the touch. Dean has to gasp, loses his grip on his buttons, because Sam is mouthing at his neck out of nowhere, yanks at Dean's slacks to get them open, then off. They fall with a rough tug, and Dean's knees almost buckle.

"W-wait, I-"

"Quiet now."

Dean's face scrunches up at the sound of tearing fabric, the bite of teeth into his skin - vibrates along with Sam's throat as the man groans, deep and low and _hungry_ , and oh god, Sam is going to _eat him alive_.

A push and Dean is flat on his stomach, bent over the backrest of the couch. Blood rushes into all the wrong directions and Dean's head goes spinning, digs his elbows back and into the couch for support, feels a faint, "Ah," in his chest, under his teeth, because Sam's body drops behind him. Fingers dig and pull and knead at his ass, his thighs, expose him, and Dean's eyes are wet without him having any say in this.

Sam pushes his face into Dean's ass as if he wants to live in it.

_Could,_ a voice in the back of Dean's mind reminds while Dean is shaking apart, _since you're **his** now, right?_

Dean sobs, loud and wet, and Sam's tongue presses so deep up into him that it makes Dean's stomach flip. "It's dirty; p-please, at least let me-"

The impact of Sam's hand against Dean's ass makes his entire leg cramp. Dean howls.

"Please, please-"

"I'll have you however-" And Sam bites down on what he can get between his teeth. "-whenever-" Again, and Dean squirms, tosses his head in a silent haul for air. "-and wherever I want." The mouth withdraws, Sam's body springs up, giant hands spanning on Dean's ass, shoving his shirt up, making Dean shiver.

When Sam starts beating Dean's ass, Dean starts holding his breath. Violently.

"You've read the agreement," Sam pants in between hits, "so you should know; but I expected this - to require a more - thorough demonstration, so - I'm not mad, pet, not - at all."

The hits stop coming.

"Breathe," Sam bellows.

Dean sucks his lungs full of air, and just when he starts releasing it again, an astray hand hits him unprepared. He jolts forward but doesn't tip over completely, doesn't fall. Hands roam up his abused back, his thighs and ass, draw rough circles, and Dean can feel how his skin is completely on fire.

"Don't hold your breath," Sam pants, almost slurs, obviously raddled himself, sniffs. "That's very dangerous, pet, and we won't have that; did you hear me?"

Dean's heart and mind are racing. "Yes!" A bone-shaking hit. "SIR! I, I, I mean SIR, yes sir!"

"There we go."

"Ah," Dean sobs again, lets himself slump into his position some more; head down, belly crushed, legs shaking. His heart jackrabbits against his (Sam's) ripped designer shirt, against lamb's leather. The storm in his head clears bit by bit with every second without new pain, with the almost hypnotic, almost soothing movements of Sam's hand on his flesh. It burns. It hurts. It really fucking hurts.

The hands on his ass circle, squeeze softly as if in apology. Sam grinds his crotch against him, too, and over his own ragged breathing, Dean hears, "Don't worry. I'm not going to fuck you. Not tonight. Not like this." The hands don't stop pawing at Dean. A pleased, almost hissed sound from behind and above. "I want to take my time with it. Wouldn't be able to stop myself if I started now."

Dean hears someone whimper. Someone's eyes feel wet. Someone's face turns to jelly and melts away.

"Okay," another someone says, and suddenly Dean is on his feet, knees, ass, arms pulled and rearranged. He squirms because it hurts to sit, like blades driving into his flesh, but he can't exactly go anywhere with his arms being held like this, with Sam's thumb wiping across his eyes. "Shhh, it's alright, pet. Another second. Can't you stand up?" Oh, that's why he is sitting. Right. Knees too wobbly. They try again and somehow it works this time around, maybe if only just for the horror of sitting on his ass again. "Very good." A kiss, arms extended behind his back, wrists pinned together.

While Sam ties Dean's hands together behind his back, Dean buries his face in white, crisp shirt; wide, strong chest. Just to close his eyes for a moment. Just to breathe in Sam's scent - stupid cologne, stupid laundry detergent. How warm it is here. Oh, what he would give to just fall asleep here, right now. But that's not what this is about, and some part of him knows.

Sam wills him upright, away from his chest, and Dean takes a flat draught of air, chasing the now missing warmth. He is swaying in his stand despite two stabilizing hands on his shoulders. Somehow terribly drowsy now, Dean flexes his arms, his fingers, is surprised when they won't come to his front to help him out. Realization cuts in then with a gasp, eyes suddenly wide, confused, no, this can't be-

Sam's hand strikes him across the face and make Dean's ears ring.

Dean does it himself even before Sam spits, "Get yourself together," straightens his legs (suddenly not wobbly anymore), regains control of his face; chest out, shoulders back.

His eyes are on Sam now, directed straight at that unmoved face. Even though Dean can make out a shine of sweat on Sam's skin, Dean's quick nasal breathing is the only indicator of the events from only a few moments ago.

As they take each other in in their very different states, something in the back of Dean's head reminds him to calm down. Calm down. It's Sam, remember? Our dear Sam. Sam who always makes us feel good, even if it hurts sometimes before it really gets good. Remember? And you remember the ropes, too. No need to freak out. You like the ropes.

The weight of Sam's hand on his shoulders makes Dean aware of how his own breathing recedes back to something like "normal".

Sam watches Dean's eyes watching him. "Are you alright, pet?"

Dean doesn't have to try hard for his nod.

"Good," Sam says. Hands roam from shoulders to collarbone to chest. "You remember the safe words, right? You are allowed to use them - but use them wisely. I know you can take a lot, so don't waste my time trying to weasel your way out of things."

A familiar heat starts forming in Dean's stomach. The soft but decisive pull on his ripped shirt's collar only adds to it.

Dean feels his own eyelids flutter, his tongue wetting his lips.

"Use the words carelessly and you will be _treated_ carelessly." Sam leans in closer, as if he wanted to kiss Dean. Dean has the vague idea that this will not be the case. "Are we clear, pet?"

"Yes, sir." It's easy.

"Good," Sam whispers. Dean dwells in the warm breath that hits his skin with the small distance between them but knows better than to chase Sam's mouth. He simply keeps staring into Sam's eyes. They are on him, too, only and exclusively, and somehow that makes everything softer. Buttery. His cheek doesn't even hurt where Sam had hit him. Only a certain way to get Dean's attention, no power behind it.

No. Sam isn't going to hurt him.

"You think you can kneel, pet?"

One second. "Yes, sir."

"Then kneel in front of the sofa. I'll be right with you."

"Yes, sir."

It's manageable to walk since it's only a small distance, only takes a few steps to circle the sofa. Balance and slow movements eventually allow Dean to lower himself to his knees. The dig of his heels into his glutes makes Dean jolt upright, but after trying to keep his balance on his shins and knees alone, he resigns to sinking back on his haunches. Lowering his chin, he expels his breath through the grit of his teeth, tries to will away the throbbing pain. The stretch of his arms is a good distraction but the pull of the ropes on his skin even better when Dean angles his elbows outwards a bit, lets his hands rest on the curve above his ass. Keeps pressure off the abused flesh, too.

To the strangely familiar, "Are you alright?" Dean closes his eyes with a long, whistling exhale. "Yes, sir." Of course.

Even though he didn't know it would come per se, Dean is not really surprised as something is fitted over his head, down his forehead. The blindfold settles in just as it did last weekend, like a favorite shirt whose weight and texture you know in and out. It smells good; a little like lavender. Sam probably hand washed it in the sink. Yeah, somehow, Dean can see that very clearly.

Warm skin on both sides of his face, tilting it up the slightest bit. Dean relaxes further, keeps his eyes shut behind the satin. The pain in his backside has fainted into a distant throb, warm and steady. His blood, pulsing. Nothing more, nothing less. Intense, yes, but it's doable. Acceptable. Dean sinks lower into his seating position.

Fingers stroke his skin. The ghost of a kiss across his lips before a real one is pressed over them. The softness of Sam's lips never fails to send Dean swooning. It is granted to him for a few seconds until Sam pulls back, takes his hands with him, too.

Audible shifting of clothing. Soft fall of weight on couch. From not so far away, Sam starts speaking again. "You are a very fast learner. Even though I didn't expect any less from you, Dean, I am impressed."

Dean finds himself giving a sly smile.

Sam usually reciprocates Dean's smiles. Dean wonders if that is the case right now, too. "So, as we discussed: step by step. I will teach you as we go. You will find me to be a strict but reasonable master. I do not expect you to fulfill every single task that I give you to my complete satisfaction, not at this early stage of your training. We will repeat, I will correct, and you will have plenty of time to memorize and to bring yourself to full potential."

The smile grows wider the more Sam is talking. The phrasing, the slow, calm tone of voice... It truly is too cliché not to be amused.

"Did I say something funny?"

"No, I just, uh." And Dean allows himself a shy chuckle.

Silence.

The longer Sam doesn't speak, the more Dean's amusement fades, too. Eventually, he straightens himself again, and the pain shooting through his ass at the movement chases away the last remnants of laughter.

No sound from Sam, still. Then, a sigh. Dean's ears strain for the sound of it.

"See, for this alone I would have to discipline you."

"Sorry, sir."

"Good. You better be." Rustling of clothes again. Sam must have shifted into another position. "I'd like to go over some basic rules now. Keeping the time and your shape in mind, I think that should be a good first lesson for now."

Sure. Because hitting the shit out of someone and making them sit in more or less helpless immobility on your thousand dollar rug isn't good enough by itself.

Papers. Oh. Dean's head twitches to the side the sound came from. Coffee table. Of course.

"So." More rustling of paper. Dean straightens himself once more. "I think the basics are always a good starting point. For what we are doing here, Dean, we need to establish our individual roles - me, the dominant, and you, the submissive. Since I am in favor of some experience in this field, well, it's only fair to say that we will concentrate on yours for now. And the very first thing here is for you to understand the concept itself; the dynamic, so to say. It's easy to get things mixed up and you've probably picked up some factoids through media or uneducated friends. Which I don't mean in an insulting way, Dean, but see, people who are not involved in the scene usually have no idea what they are talking about. It's a matter of fact. They babble without much sense, turn and alienate facts until they created the image of a freaky, disgusting thing they can delimit themselves and their spotless, proper selves from. Anyway."

While Sam was speaking, Dean listened but at the same time searched his brain for what Sam calls "factoids" here. He certainly has an idea of BDSM. What comes to mind? Leather. Fetishes. Squirming, sweating persons, whips and harsh words. Commands. Leashes.

"I want you to forget all of these things. Every individual relationship between a dom and a sub is different. Elements vary. Some use only certain kinds of pain, some nothing _but_ pain, and some none at all. It's all about control, of staying in your role. The dom owns and the sub is being owned. Active and passive. This is the basic idea. Are you following so far?"

"Yes," and after a second, "sir."

Sam seems to overlook the mistake. Maybe he sympathizes with Dean's concentration on listening and thus the lack of responsiveness. "What I expect from you, Dean, in the long term of course, is for you to truly let yourself go. You are mine now, and you can trust me a hundred percent. All the time. In every situation. I have your back and I look out for you. Do you remember what clause fifteen is about?" Faintly, yes, but Dean's reply is made obsolete with Sam presumably reading it out loud. "'The Dominant shall make the Submissive's health and safety a priority at all times.' This. This is me. I am not here to torture you. We still are in a relationship. You still are my partner. I want you to be happy. There _will_ be times, of course, where I will have to make an example of you. The importance is for you to always keep in mind that ultimately, it's for your own good. I will push your limits, yes, but you can still trust me. I will never do anything that could or would put your health in danger. It's all in the contract, too. I obliged to these rules by affixing my signature, just like you, and I will respect the boundaries and duties, just like you. It might sound odd to you now, but believe me - we are equal partners."

Dean knows better than to snort like he would like to. He doesn't even dare a "okay", even though Sam seems to take a little pause from his monologue. Dean can hear him shifting in his position.

"It's not easy to stay in control of both of us, you know?"

The gentle nudge of the tip of a shoe against his cheek startles Dean heavily. When the nudge doesn't turn into anything else and departs rather soon, he allows himself a shuddering draught of air.

"I would like to and could do a lot of things to you right now..." Sam mutters, but definitely too loud for it to be for himself. Dean imagines his lover cradling his cheek in his hand, his elbow propped up on the sofa's armrest. "... but I am being good. I am aware of my responsibilities."

A small pause, maybe for the information to sink in. Yeah. Dean guesses it's for that. He curls and uncurls his fingers. A little sweaty, but he has had worse.

Sam's voice is sweet and heavy like molasses when he asks, "What are _your_ responsibilities, pet? Let's see."

While the papers are being looked through, Dean swallows.

"When I ask you a question and put 'pet' behind it, pet, I want you to answer to me. Answer."

Momentary stupor before Dean's brain is back on track. "I, uhm, I need to be available at all times. Right? And do whatever you say."

"Correct. Anything else, pet?"

"Uh." Dean frowns, thinks, tries to remember more details. The words had been so cruelly clear earlier, but now that he wants to recall them, they seem to blur into illegible smudges. "It's all in clause fifteen. I dunno. There are a lot of sub clauses. I can't remember."

"That is fine, thank you for your answer. You got the main idea, which is what counts. I am very proud of you." A short pause. "There are keywords for you to say 'thank you, sir'. This was one of them. When I tell you that I am proud of you, you say...?"

"Thank you, sir."

"Exactly. During our scenes, which is just another word for, well, when we are by ourselves, basically-"

"You mean Hard t-"

"- _I don't want you to speak unless I allow it_." Sam had to raise his voice to keep speaking despite being interrupted by Dean. Now that Dean is silent again (and slightly baffled, too), he lowers it back to its soothing, bass-heavy self. "You have your cues and keywords, pet, and if there is any other reason for you to speak, you will ask me for my _permission_ to speak."

Dean's lips press together. A slight nervousness crawls up his throat. Stay calm. It's a game.

"The other cues for 'thank you' are," and Sam lists them as if they were written somewhere, but Dean is absolutely sure he hadn't read about any of that sort in the contract, "when I kiss your mouth. When I let you touch my cock. When I insert something, anything, into your ass or mouth. When I come in or on you. It's sufficient to say it after a kiss as in order not to disturb my pleasure of it, but otherwise you will say it even if you have something in your mouth that renders your articulation useless, for example my cock, my fingers, a gag. I will be aware of your efforts to say it and I will be aware if you skip them."

Dean breathes, listens. Remember. Internalize. Don't think about his cock shoving into your ass. Dean's head droops slightly.

"Are we clear, pet?"

"Yes, sir."

"I will not say 'thank you' or 'please', nor will I apologize to you. I expect you to _accept_ what I choose to do to you, since it is my _right_ to handle you as I please. Be sure that there will be times of me showing my gratitude for your trust, but understand that these times are separated from the disciplining itself. You will be rewarded for going through entire lessons, not single parts of it, for it is the _entirety_ of the lesson that's valuable for your training. This is why it has to be done like I will do it to you. We both know I adore you and like gentleness, but it is not my duty to lull you. My duty is to take care of your needs. And we both know what you need is stability and control - from outside of your own mind. You need support, a way to come to peace with yourself, and I will provide for that. Do you understand, pet?"

"Yes, sir."

"Other commands are not necessary yet, but I might come up with some in the future. Whenever I use the imperative on you, of course, you will follow said command 'immediately, without hesitation, enquiry or complaint', just as it says here under fifteen-nineteen. The clause is about the acceptation of punishments, actually, but that's just the same thing. Whatever I do or tell you to do - don't think about it, just listen, just obey. You might find this hard at first..."

And yes, Dean thinks he might.

"... but you will see, Dean, how utterly satisfying it can be. To just react. To live by someone else's words."

"May I speak, sir?"

"Yes."

Lick of lips. Concentration. "Are there any other things I am not allowed to do? Will you punish me for something even if we didn't discuss said particular thing yet?"

"A good question," Sam croons. A few moments for him to put together his answer, apparently. Then, finally, "No. I will bring it to your attention the first time you make a particular undiscussed mistake. From then on, if you repeat it again, you will receive punishment for it. I might not remind you while you are performing the mistake, but be assured that I _will_ remember every slip-up."

Another slow pause. Dean hears absolutely nothing. The street outside is very quiet during the week. So very different from his own apartment or from Sam's loft in the center of the city.

"I might collect a few mistakes and then punish you for all of them in one scene. To truly make it... memorable."

Dean nods, mostly to himself. Yes. Sounds like Mr. Wesson. Dean has seen him ripping apart colleagues during meetings or presentations. He is usually the last to add his two cents, and if he feels like it, he can make the entire room turn against the person in question - even if the earlier feedbacks have been mostly positive. Sam can be meticulous in the performance of his will like that.

"Did this answer your question, pet?"

"Yes, sir."

"Excellent. So - let's see if we are on the same page now."

Rustling of papers, then on the left of Dean's head. Coffee table. Sam set the contract aside again, now sits back into the couch. While Dean faces forward, he takes a timid breath. His heart is slowly coming back to a more healthy rhythm. The talk had been calming. The prospect of having to act now seems excruciating after being passive for so long.

"Would you like something to drink, Dean?"

No "pet". "Dean" is not "pet". Dean stays silent, tense.

Three long, torturous seconds.

"Very good, pet."

Flutter of heart. The pain in his backside keeps Dean from sinking in on himself in relief.

Sam continues and, judged by the change in sound of his voice, leans in closer towards Dean. "I am very proud of you."

"Thank you, sir," Dean snaps immediately.

" _Very_ good."

A warm hand runs along Dean's cheek, over his head, into his hair.

Dean Smith's chest swells with something like pride.

A soft kiss to Dean's forehead.

Dean's lips part, but he doesn't say anything. _On the mouth_ , Sam had said.

The hand keeps stroking his hair. "Excellent," Sam hums.

Kiss on the mouth.

"Thank you, sir," it comes as they part again. His fingers spanning on Dean's cheek, the thumb of Sam's right hand runs down his chin, adds the slightest hint of pressure.

Two other digits fit themselves between Dean's lips and push in. Even though they lie on Dean's tongue, they don't hit the back of his throat. Like this, he doesn't have to gag.

"Hank you, hir." Hint of embarrassment as he does his best to say it; ting of pink in the back of his neck. Thank god the blindfold is on. He couldn't look into Sam's face right now.

The fingers withdraw and immediately are replaced by Sam's tongue. Sam cradles his head with both strong hands, kisses him almost feverish. Dean tries to get a hold of his own breathing while kissing back just as urgently. The sudden and overwhelming contact makes him aware of how he hasn't been touched for a while now, despite being naked from the waist down and his abdomen exposed halfway thanks to ripped buttons - and how badly he wants to be touched. Needs to. And yet, when Sam pulls back and leaves Dean wanting, panting, all Dean can say is, "Thank you, sir." For kissing him in the first place, not for ending it.

Hands go from hair to neck and further down, slide under the ripped shirt until they come to a halt on Dean's waist. Sam must be kneeling in front of him at this point. "Spread your legs."

Dean does; well, tries to. He groans troubled sounds as he is caught between keeping pressure from his ass while placing his knees further apart at the same time. Oh, and not falling flat on his face, either. Sam stabilizes him though, then brings his hands down to adjust Dean's legs even wider. Slowly, in order not to make Dean fall. Dean is breaking a sweat from the effort but doesn't make a sound.

"Look how obedient you are already. Wonderful. Just wonderful, Dean."

A kiss to Dean's cheek, and then Sam's hands are gone.

Dean strains his ears in the silence as a small sound announces itself, but despite his efforts, Dean can't put his finger on what it is.

Sam swiftly slides something over Dean's barely yet interested cock.

As his balls are being lifted and nudged through it, too, Dean remembers.

"No," he splutters with a sudden gallop of his heart, remembers and knows exactly what it is Sam is putting on him. "Nonononono!" His knees are snapping closed immediately, but Sam is strong.

Dean sobs.

A strike to Dean's chest, the horribly exposed skin there, right there; and Dean's body spasms.

He still tries to escape, still tries, "Nonono, please, please Sam, we, I just, it's been off for only a couple o' days, please-"

Another strike, same side - considerably harder. Dean yelps but keeps his knees pressed closed.

He imagines hearing a deep exhale. "Everything you are doing now is proving me right for putting it back on."

The next blow could have come from a whip, could have torn Dean's skin. He knows it isn't, though, knows because Sam's fingers come down again right away and he can feel the dry callouses of those fingertips, had felt them on his tongue only moments ago, and he sobs because he knows he doesn't have another choice but to accept. The hits. The cage. Everything.

It takes another few smacks before Dean lets his thighs part once more. Almost voluntarily.

He is shaking, on fire. The impact on his upper body drove his ass deeper down on his heels, and now the right side of his chest is stinging, too. Only the right side. Feels like he has only one side anymore. Dean flinches hard as Sam's now warmed hand gives a last affectionate drift down where he had hit before returning between Dean's legs.

Dean's body is trembling, his heart racing. He hadn't told Sam but it must have been clear that Dean didn't want to repeat the chastity thing for the time being. And yet, the ring is being fitted. Three days. It's Thursday and they got it off on Monday. Three days, and he is going to be locked up again.

"I want to speak, sir," Dean chokes.

"No," the reply comes.

Dean sobs, thrashes his head - feels the cage sliding on. "Please, sir, _please_ -"

"Quiet."

The click of the lock being threaded into place and its so quickly followed snap send Dean falling over, right onto Sam's shoulder. He makes a pitiful sound here, low and helpless.

Desperation takes over from one second to the next.

"There we go," Dean hears, and it sounds like relief, like soothing. Doesn't feel like it. Not at all. Not even with the encouraging (somehow mocking) pat to his back. "Now was that so hard?"

"May I speak, please, sir?"

And Sam has his arm around Dean's back now as he answers, "Yes."

The warmth around Dean is blinding. Like being swept away, taken apart. If Sam wasn't here, Dean would be on the floor. All his weight is on Sam. His bound wrists give a faint throb as Dean asks, "For how long?"

"Don't worry about it," the answer comes.

Dean collapses in on himself completely.

"Shhh."

Dean sobs.

"Shhh. It's alright. Just let it go."

Soothing hands on Dean's clothed but sweaty back, a cheek rubbing at him, a mouth searching for the soft skin of his neck. Dean has no power left to bear it but Sam finds his mark nevertheless, sucks with a gentle affection, then kisses.

"Don't think about it. Simply let it happen. Forget that it's there. I'll take care of you, and you won't need anything I can't give you exactly the way you are right now, right here, with me."

Dean doesn't feel his body between the two places Sam had spanked him, is only halfway aware of being tipped backwards, of his skin lowering onto the soft carpet. Sam helps untucking his legs from underneath him, splays them wide and fits himself in between. Kisses rain down on Dean's neck, the beginning of his chest, maybe just so that Dean doesn't have to speak now, doesn't have to say "thank you" when it's not his mouth. His hands hurt where they are caught under his lower back, but they have nowhere to go. Dean's legs don't want to move too much either since every contraction of muscle brings back a bite of pain.

_At my mercy_ , Dean thinks.

Sam laps at the nipple right underneath where he had spanked Dean earlier, has his hands twisted deeply into the remnants of Dean's shirt - and Dean's head falls back. He arches into the touch, the warm, wet cave of Sam's mouth. It engulfs him hungrily, just like during the earlier kiss, and again, it steals all air from Dean's lungs.

Panic comes back with a pang, intense and unforgiving, makes Dean startle and groan. But Sam keeps on working his chest, and somehow, panic fades again. Slower than it had come, yes, but... Dean opens his eyes behind the blindfold, and the weight on his thoughts is gone.

Just like that. Gone.

Sam switches to the other side, the other nipple, and plucks on the now spit-wet one with thumb and forefinger.

Because he feels his dick twitching in its cage, Dean gasps, but Sam soothes, "Shhh," and, "I've got you," and eventually, his eyes and body drift into darkness. Into calmness.

Thoughts in the back of his head demand attention Dean is not willing to give. If he lets himself float, doesn't think, just like Sam had advised, then there is no pain, no tons of pressure. Here, right now, there is only the soft pulse of pleasure, of a dim, warm light wherever Sam is touching him. Here, there is no need to dread the near future, the consequences, the fears. Here, Sam has got him.

Dean Smith is safe Here, and he likes it Here.

Sam comes up after a while, kisses Dean's mouth warm and sloppy. Dean feels the dribble of saliva dripping from between their parting lips as he mutters, "Thank you, sir," and he feels _good_.

Sam hums, warm and heavy, and the sound of something ruffling and then clicking doesn't even bother Dean, not really. He smells it as Sam spreads it on his fingers and said smell only is another lead for him to stay Here, to keep himself from sinking low again. He licks his throbbing lips and gives a faint sound when Sam wills his legs apart some more, wrenches his hand between their bodies. One finger circles his asshole, and Dean doesn't exactly mind. Just another lead.

It presses in, pulls back immediately - then back in. A quick, teasing rhythm. Dean feels the heat spreading into his lower body, feels a slightly burning something, but mostly... yeah, mostly, he is good. He is alright.

He remembers. "Thank you, sir."

"Perfect, Dean." Dean, not pet. _Dean_ has been good. _Dean_ is doing perfectly fine.

Dean gets a kiss to his mouth and a middle finger up to the hilt, and his voice feels a little shaky when Sam's mouth lets him give his, "Thank you, sir."

Sam growls, brings his forefinger next to the middle, twists the latter inside. Dean's heart hammers and his skin hurts (kind of everywhere), and if Sam wasn't blocking the movement, Dean would let his head roll around a bit. Just to chase away the clouds, just a little, to get the buzz out of his ears. The finger angles in and breaches (so easy), and Dean thinks he makes a small sound, now doesn't get a kiss to his mouth. No, his mouth stays lonely for now.

Dean's nipple is being latched on, sucked on, and the fingers drive deep, twist, crook. Sam really has nice fingers. A nice mouth, too. Dean's fingers twitch along with his toes and bring part of his attention to their prickling state. They hurt, but not really. Everything is heavy. Yeah. "Heavy" is the word. But Sam is heavy too (so heavy on Dean) and Dean _likes_ that.

"Very good."

Dean doesn't think he did anything. He frowns a little when Sam's fingers change angle, then fuck him a bit faster. He grunts, and the friction on his insides is odd, invasive. The longer it goes on though, the more the discomfort seems to lessen. Another low growl. Heat spreads in Dean's chest and face at the sound of himself.

Little sounds of kisses and wet squelches layer over the sound of Dean's ass getting plunged into deep and good. Dean concentrates on the first, tries to forget about the latter. The sensation is nice, yes, but the sound is too much of a reminder. But he doesn't go There, stays Here. Here with Sam.

A stray thought wonders if Sam's wrist doesn't hurt at this point. Another laughs and mocks _who cares?_. Dean's back ruts over the carpet in tiny increments with every push of Sam's knuckles. The pressure of the metal around his cock is strangely familiar, almost soothing. It's something you end up accepting after a few moments. This forced upon impotence. The dull throb of flesh that knows it can possibly swell, but not now, not here. Sam's fingers ram into Dean's prostate on every other thrust or so, and Dean floats in the low heat this gives him.

"How's it feel, pet?" Sam grits the word through harsh breaths. Dean likes the taste, the sound.

"Good," he slurs - gets a slap to his cheek. Barely a tap. "Sir. Good, _sir_."

"Concentrate."

"'M sorry, sir."

Harder slap. "Mh, I bet. Sorry too for keeping this from me for so long, hm? For making me wait for your ass? Answer."

Of course, Dean doesn't mean it when he vows his, "Yes, sir," never felt obligated to do anything for Sam; it always was his free choice. Equal partners. Grown-ups. We don't play stupid games like teenagers, Sammy. Behind the blindfold, Dean's eyes roll backwards to reveal white. Sam's hand is giving it to him for all that he's worth.

Fuck stars. This is a whole galaxy.

"Pretty virgin ass for me, right, Dean?" Dean couldn't see right now even without the blindfold on, can't and has no motivation to imagine Sam's face right now. "No one's ever had this but me - isn't - that - right?"

Sam's hand slams against his ass so hard Dean fears it might slip in just like that. "Yes, sir!"

Over his own grunting, Dean Smith is unable to pay any attention to Sam Wesson's thick silence cutting through the living room.

The fingers pull out harshly, leaving a burn and a too-wide sensation, a gasping Dean. His legs are stretched out towards the ceiling, held together. Then, the fingers force back in. Slow. Deep. Deeper than before. Sam is rocking Dean on his knuckles, easy as anything.

"Since you are so smart, I'm sure you've heard of prostate orgasms, right? Enough stimulation and there we go. But it's not easy to achieve without much practice, especially when you can't even get hard. Slows down the entire process. But we're eager, aren't we?"

The pressure is immense and not exactly pleasant anymore. Dean takes flat breaths to keep the clenching of his muscles in line, tries not to listen and yet tries very hard to understand. Is Sam... offering him something here? Should he respond? Surely shouldn't. No keyword. Dean clenches his bound hands underneath his back.

"I think we are," Sam muses. Fingers tip-tap teasingly over what they both know makes Dean's cock stir despite the metal cage. "And I think, pet, that you should definitely enjoy one eventually. So I think we should try... and wait... and try some more... until you've got it." Slow, maddening corkscrewing motions of a wrist drive Sam's fingers deep into Dean's guts. Dean has to concentrate very hard in order not to hold his breath again. "You see," Sam adds, "they say it's so much easier when you haven't climaxed for a while."

A sudden, harsh thrust. Dean half-moans, half-keens for it, flashes his eyes wide and green underneath the blindfold.

"So maybe the cage actually _is_ of help in this matter."

Another. Dean jolts with the impact.

"I'd say, just to make sure we've truly tested our possibilities - that until you've come from nothing but anal stimulation, we should keep you locked up."

Dean stares at satin and imagines a grinning devil above himself.

"It seems only fair," Sam croons. "It's for science, after all."

And then, the fingers disappear for good. Dean's legs are dropped to the floor and he curls in on himself immediately, slightly to his side to keep his still stinging ass from the carpet. Pins and needles shoot into his hands after having them squished underneath himself for so long.

Sounds of a paper tissue being handled, of Dean's own ragged breathing. Sam's is more controlled but clearly not unaffected either.

Dean stares at the blindfold and tries to grasp a thought. There doesn't seem to be one. Nothing.

"I will untie you now, and I will remove the blindfold. Then I want you to kneel again like you did before."

It happens like Sam wants it to happen. Dean blinks his vision back into function, rubs at his (slightly wetted) eyes with a too-numb hand. He watches Sam sitting down on the sofa again, sees one long leg folding itself over the other. Dean waits.

Eventually, Sam hums. "You were very good tonight. Only a few slip-ups. I think you know which ones were the gestures I punished you with. But overall, I am very pleased."

Dean keeps himself straight. Technically, this has about the same meaning as a "I am proud of you", but, well... only technically.

"Say 'thank you, sir'."

"Thank you, sir."

"Kiss my foot." Dean doesn't keep himself from moving immediately, but stops midway at Sam's, "No. The one on the ground."

Dean bows down and presses his lips to the smooth leather of Sam's shoe. Then, he curls himself back up, sits straight. Feels light-headed. Strangely fulfilled. Proud.

Sam's eyes are unreadable. "Your lesson is over now. You may move freely again, Dean."

Breath rushes from Dean together with a huge bulk of tension. He immediately leans forward, goes to his hands and knees to relieve the weight from his backside. His wrists hurt like this, sure, but that's manageable. He'll get up in a second. Just another second.

"Have a shower. Brush your teeth, have a piss. Whatever you feel like doing."

Dean eyes the almost artistic imprint of the ropes on his skin.

"And then join me in the bedroom." Sam gets up, gathers his tools from the coffee table.

_Always available_ , Dean reminds himself.

The lock sings against the metal of the cage as he finally gets to his feet.

True relaxation doesn't come to Dean until he is in the shower, alone, with the door closed (not locked, but it could be if he had wanted) and the torn shirt in an uneven heap on the floor. He tries to keep his shower functional, but his skin is burning too bright for the low water temperature to be reasonable, ignored. Dean's thoughts are racing, crumbling, jittering.

What if he leaves? Yeah. What if he _leaves_? Now, without much fuss, never look at Sam again. No, not exactly possible; Mr. Wesson still is his boss. But Sam is professional, wouldn't mess up work because of a private matter, right?

Dean's finger close tightly around his unoccupied wrist and make the rope marks burn. It's not too terrible, actually, but enough to tear his mind from these traitorous thoughts. No. Why should he leave? Why now? He could have left so much earlier. He's seen it now, seen what Sam wants him to do, has an idea of how they will proceed. It's not exactly the fulfillment of Dean's dreams, sure, but then again Dean's life had been terribly boring up until he had met Sam.

If the urge to leave hasn't taken over yet, then maybe Dean actually _wants to stay_. Yes. Probably. Would make sense. Is the only thing that makes any sense right now.

His caged cock lies heavy in his palm. He looks at it, takes it in in its objective, superficial appearance. The metal is polished to perfection, silver and smooth. Somehow, it reminds Dean of the cufflinks Sam had given him for Christmas. Hm. Christmas. That's so long ago and yet again really not a long time to know someone. So much has happened since then. They really came a long way, didn't they? His earlier thoughts about leaving make Dean angry now. How stupid. How impossible. How could he ever leave Sam?

He turns off the water, rubs himself dry. There are no clothes to change into, so he makes his way to the bedroom where he knows both Sam and possible pajamas are. In the doorway, he comes to a halt. Peers into the room, over to the bed.

Sam's eyes are on him, exhaustion-heavy and welcoming. Topless as the man is, Dean can watch every single muscle in that arm work as Sam raises it, just a little, just for a small gesture.

"Come here. Come to bed."

Dean blinks, suddenly very tired, suddenly terribly drawn to his lover who is so peaceful, so beautiful where he lies on his back; like an angel. Something ethereal. So Dean walks over to the bed, the necessity of putting on some clothes or at least underwear not important anymore. Sam is naked as well, after all.

The beddings are soft and Sam's skin even softer to sink against, to be embraced by. Arms draw him in, close around his back, gently pull him on top of Sam. Dean can't help but to kiss that mouth, cradles a rough jaw as he closes his eyes. It must be late, so so late. They have work tomorrow. They should go to sleep already (should have done so hours ago). Somehow though, the kiss is a good excuse to stay awake just a little while longer.

"No need for 'sir' anymore for today, pet. Let yourself go."

"Okay." Then, after another few moments of nothing but kisses, "Oh."

"Hm?"

Dean brings a hand between their bodies. "You, uh, you didn't..."

"It's alright," Sam hums, tugs Dean's hand away. They are lying chest to chest now and Sam is kissing Dean once more. "I took care of that while you were in the shower. Figured that'd be easiest for both of us. It's been a long night." More kisses. Dean's head is spinning. "Now just relax," Dean hears, and yeah, that is something he can absolutely do.

Kissing, caressing. They roll around to the one and then eventually over to the other side, always at least one arm around each the other's back or neck, always preserving skin contact. After being handled so rough, Dean now indulges in this closeness. It would be too much otherwise, in another scenario, but now, he practically can't get enough of it.

Their movements are slow, practiced. Sure, they have done this before, but never with this much abandon. Dean hasn't thought himself capable of wanting such a thing, to be this intimate with someone. But this is Sam. Sam, his boyfriend. Sam, somehow his best friend, only friend. His dominant, too. Sam is so much. All Dean needs and more.

Everything has died down at some point. The bedside lamp is still alit in loyalty, keeps the room in a low light. "This is part of us, too," Sam mutters through pillow and Dean's hair. "It's not about wanting to hurt or to be hurt. In the end, it's about opening up to you partner. To someone you can share everything with."

Dean hums his approval. The rasp of Sam's voice makes him even sleepier. A perfect addition to their shared body heat underneath the blankets.

One of the more softer, almost asleep kisses is placing itself on the side of Dean's neck. "You complete me, pet."

Since Dean is unable to articulate himself, he instead squeezes the hand curled into his own right on top of his heart.

And that night, Dean Smith falls asleep with a smile on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, we have reached the end of my current supply with the end of this chapter. [As I mentioned on tumblr](http://hellhoundsprey.tumblr.com/post/141214042669/okay-so-uh-news), I have to take my real life "a tad" more seriously at the moment. Updates might come rather slow for now; sorry. But that's how life is sometimes: sucky.   
> See you soon! Keep your pretty heads up!


	14. Chapter 14

"Sweetheart."

"Ugh."

"Wake up. Hey."

" _Ugh_ ," Dean repeats. His eyes will barely peel open. "What the... It's... isn't it still dark outs...? What...?"

"Yeah, it's a little early. C'mon. Up you go."

Dean lets Sam help him into an upright position, then out of bed. He feels like a small, unwilling child, especially when Sam holds him by the hand and leads him, well, wherever. Dean rubs his eyes and is still half asleep. The clinking noise following them around irritates him until he finally remembers the cock cage, one foot already past the bathroom's door sill.

"Ugh, Sam, what...?"

"Here, sit down. Here."

Dean does, because what other choice does he have? It's way too early and the artificial light in the bathroom makes him scrounge up his face, blinds him. He protects his eyes with both palms, yawns and groans all the while Sam places him on the bathtub's edge. He shivers because the enamel is cold as fuck and ouch, what the- oh yeah, right, last night. Spanking. Ass. Ouch.

"Okay," and Sam's voice somehow comes from below, from between Dean's legs, "I want you to hold still now."

"Huh?"

Something lukewarm touches Dean's sac; no, embraces it.

"Whu- what the...?" Dean peels his hands from his face just in time to catch a glimpse of the crown of Sam's hair where he is crouching in between Dean's legs, has one hand on Dean's hip and the other - well.

"The stiller you are, the quicker it will be over."

The something on Dean's sac is ripped off in one swift move, and if Sam's hand wasn't stabilizing him, Dean would have toppled right over himself with his excruciating scream.

"Jesus fuck, you're loud!"

The pain is _blinding_. Dean tries to shove Sam away, wants to flee, to curl in on himself to protect his genitals, and he kind of wants to throw up, too. Sam's response to his sobs for air? Another warm something, now on the other side. Dean yelps at this touch alone.

Sam wrestles Dean's legs under control and doesn't give much of a damn about the hands trying to hold on for dear life. "I said," he grits, and Dean can feel his hand on him again, "hold STILL!"

Another rip; a nasty, nasty sound, forever etched in Dean's memory. He connects it with burning flesh, with fire, with the horror of having his balls ripped right from between his legs. When Sam lets him be, finally, finally, Dean falls right over, face-down, knees almost up to his chin.

"For Christ's sake," he hears Sam hiss somewhere, would sound disgusted and annoyed if Dean really cared to listen, but he is too busy sobbing for air, keeping bile down, persuading himself to get a hand between his legs to check on himself. "Now come on now, don't be such a crybaby. I've had it done myself, I know it's not _that_ awful. Get yourself together."

Dean sobs but brings his fingertips to his balls. They are throbbing and heated, so so burning hot and, and-

Smooth.

_Sam just waxed his balls._

Busy clattering somewhere where Dean isn't, where there's air and Sam's cologne and no bathroom rug to cry into. "Now would you mind? We have a few more places to get to and we don't have endless time on our hands."

Dean fights Sam's hands as they make efforts to uncurl him, to get him back on the bathtub. But Sam is strong.

"You're over the worst of it. The rest is gonna be like vacation in comparison, trust me."

Dean holds his breath through the most of it, and Sam doesn't chastise him for it this time around. Maybe he's just too busy working with precision. He applies strip after strip of (mockingly) warm cotton and wax and rips them off again after one smooth slide of his palm to flatten the instruments of torture over Dean's skin. Too afraid to get sick from the sight, Dean doesn't dare to watch. It's not like he needs to, really, since he can clearly feel the areas Sam has been through with: all the way down Dean's legs, over his pubic bone (even his treasure trail). The armpits hurt like hell but the throb in his balls is still the undisputed winner. Sam says he likes the soft hair on Dean's forearms, so Dean is left with that much. Since Dean is everything but hairy, there's only one more place to go. So terribly close to his still tender balls. God. Dean is gonna be sick.

Sam makes him stand up and brace one of his hands on the tub's edge as he leans over. The other one slaps onto his own ass, is shoved to pull one cheek to the side; away. The warmth of the wax is so much more palpable here, feels like several degrees more than before. Dean gasps at the firm press of Sam's hand, feels his knees shaking. His skin is on fire everywhere, pours sweat (everywhere). Every pore, every inch of him is alarmed.

The strip tears from Dean's skin and Dean recoils in the little space Sam's grip on his hip is granting him.

"The other side now. Come on, you're almost done."

The other side. Dean watches a drop of sweat running down the wall of the tub. Must be his, but he is too tired to care. Exhausted even.

"There you go," Sam hums, obviously pleased with how he sighs. The air whistles through his teeth and he is up on his feet again, standing tall behind Dean. One warm, too warm (boiling) hand fans itself over the globe of Dean's ass that just had been assaulted, still keens fire-red. An affectionate grope and Dean sways forward in his position. Sam's low growl feels cold down Dean's spine, makes his temples throb. A wipe of fingertips along the crease of his ass, now perfectly smooth and so so alien, and Sam mutters, "Yeah. That's more like it."

After a lonesome shower (Dean insisted on it) and several awkward sensations while getting dressed, Dean finds himself in the kitchen with Sam. He asks in half-mockery and half-anger if Sam suddenly decided he likes Dean better in "young", hairless, if that's what gets him going - well aware that it's dangerous, that he shouldn't push his limits. But oh, he feels so very emasculated right now and he needs to get the frustration out, one way or another. Sam doesn't pay him much attention and rather spends it on whatever he is preparing in his faithful frying pan. Just an incidental, "Appendix one, clause five," passes his lips. Sam is already shaved, had been showered and dressed before he came for Dean.

Dean frowns. "I don't even have a copy of that damn contract yet."

"I'll have it ready by tonight. That alright with you?"

Deeper frown. Frustration. "Yeah." A dismissive glance over the countertop and eventually the pan. "What's all that for?"

"Breakfast."

"Bon apetit then."

"It's for the both of us."

Flicker of eyes from Sam back into pan, back to Sam. "I'm not gonna eat that."

"You will."

"Yeah, no, thanks, but I'm planning on surviving my forties without a heart attack, thank you very much." Dean makes his way over to the coffee machine, away from the now so much more sickening scent of fried eggs and bacon. The grease in the air in combination with the slick sensation of his now oh-so bald skin and the metal cage... It will be a miracle if Dean will be able to get anything into his stomach before evening.

There are two plates next to the stovetop. Sam lifts the pan to divide the meal into two even heaps; one for each plate. Dean watches. Dean doesn't move even though he wants to.

Sam holds one of the plates out for Dean to take. His look is unbreakable when it flicks down to the food - and back to Dean.

"Eat."

Dean stares at the meal. It's steaming, glistening. Dean thinks of cholesterol and maybe he actually sees it, sees the grease drops all over this disaster Sam wants to poison him with.

Dean's leg starts to move so that Dean can make a step backwards. Sam intervenes right there with a, "You do _not_ want to make me repeat myself."

Eyes up to Sam, back down to food.

The arm flexes, brings the plate that little inch closer to Dean.

Slowly but ultimately, Dean takes it.

With his eyes never leaving the heap (mountain) on his plate, Dean follows behind Sam who makes his way to the kitchen island, sits down on one of the barstools and starts digging in immediately. Dean moves cautiously, maybe to buy time, maybe to make up a plan to avoid this, but in the end sits in front of 'his breakfast' with a fork in his hand and a shiver in his stomach. Frozen.

"Come on, we'll be late."

Easy for him to say. Dean swallows; imagines his tie way too tight all of a sudden. Another few moments filled with nothing but Sam's eating noises later, Dean puts the fork down again, brings his now free hand to his mouth and wipes across it. He twists in his seat as if he truly could get away here.

"I. I can't eat this. I can't."

"Aren't you hungry?"

Dean shakes his head.

"These are American, free range, grain fed, organic chicken's eggs-" Sam reaches across the table to point at Dean's plate. "-and this is just as organic, finest Italian bacon."

Dean stares, says nothing. Hears Sam sighing. "I'm, it's, it's just so- There's so much _fat_ , I-"

"No added fat, Dean, it's all from the bacon."

"St-still, I..."

"This is a perfectly fine meal. It's perfectly good fat, it's not gonna kill you or make you fat, it-"

"And you have a degree in nutrition to know all that?!"

Sam was frowning before but now Dean recognizes a dangerous hardness around the edges. He realizes he is sweating, clamps his hands tighter around the chair's armrests. Holds on. He didn't mean to raise his voice.

Sam's exhale leaves him through his flared nostrils. "I will count to three now, pet, and if you haven't started eating by the time I finished counting, I can promise you you will not be looking forward to the weekend. One."

Dean's eyes flick down, up to Sam, down.

"Two."

Dean cringes even as his fingers flex to reach out for the fork.

"Three."

There is a fork full of bacon right in front of Dean Smith's mouth. Dean Smith hasn't had bacon in six years. Dean Smith neither wants to eat the bacon nor the eggs, nor does he want to chew or taste or swallow - but Dean Smith ends up doing all of these things. Sam's strict gaze weighs tons. The first bite down Dean's gullet feels like sandpaper, like stones, pure butter. He shudders. Holds back from retching. Gives a labored breath.

Dean Smith doesn't want to, but he manages to go through two thirds of his plate before Sam has to intervene again. It's praise this time, softer but still insistent; of course. Dean feels ten pounds heavier, as if someone jammed a cruise ship into the way too tight cave of his stomach. In his imagination, Dean's arteries are immediately clogging up with thick, solid crumbs of grease. He _feels_ them flowing through his blood stream, _feels_ them squeezing through vessels too thin to let them pass through; imagines them _bulging out_ _under his skin_.

Dean Smith pushes away from the plate and hears Sam say something like, "See, it wasn't so bad, right?" and can't look the man in the eye.

The drive to work goes on in silence. It's not even eight AM and yet the entirety of Dean's day is ruined already. He feels foreign in his skin, in these clothes. Even after brushing his teeth, the taste (naturally) returns with every burp forcing its way up Dean's gullet, reminds Dean of material in his body he doesn't want to be there. His stomach makes weird noises; Dean imagines heartburn but Sam soothes that it's only hiccups, it will pass. But Dean's skin still throbs where Sam had hit him last night, where he had waxed him earlier this morning. The metal of the cage seems tighter than last time. It's unimaginable that nobody can tell straight away what is going on.

Dean turns and twists the fact back and forth. It remains the same, doesn't it? He signed the papers. He should know. Feels it with every shifting of clothing over his too-bare skin, each brush of Sam's hand over his thigh, knee. Dean stares out of the window and presses his knuckles to his mouth until he can't feel his lips anymore.

It's Friday. There's a weekend ahead, right in front of them. Dean realizes this as they are joining the already crowded elevator, fits himself between his coworkers and almost forgets to put on his working face, his easy smile and soft wave of a hand. Another thing he realizes - and Sam is pressing the button for their floor while Dean does realize - is that they put up a contract as intimate and twisted like nothing Dean ever thought would be needed for a relationship to work, all the while neither of them yet used that big magical word beginning with a capital "L".

Sitting feels weird. Moving feels weird. Everything. A stranger in his own skin, caught, Dean feels miserable. The first bathroom break for him takes place an hour after arriving at CS. The man in the mirror seems to be a mismatched someone to Dean; too pale, too haunted, nervous bite to his jaw. Dean's stomach wants to heave over a toilet, but Dean won't have that. Forehead to the wall, eyes squeezed shut, hand in a trembling fist over his middle - _you're alright, it's fine, you're alright_. Dean splashes some water to the stranger's face and applies some emergency moisturizer. His hand slaps the product into skin harder than it would be necessary. Dean watches and is unable to secure an inch of ground.

A doubtful look (maybe edging on 'concern') from his secretary. "Are you alright, sir?"

Dean Smith wrinkles his forehead in a heartfelt laugh, dismisses with a wave of a hand. "It's that new detox. Nothing but kale and lemon juice, ah, but I guess it will be worth it. Did Lumbick bring over the papers yet?"

Maybe five (or is it forty?) minutes later, a heavily concerned (maybe edging on 'genuine worry') Novak asks in front of Mr. Smith's desk, "Are you alright, sir?"

Dean Smith is on three espressos and five heartburn pills and gestures for the papers Novak clings to while he corrects the position of his glasses on the bridge of his nose. "Perfect, thank you. Now let's see what they want."

As much as Dean tries to outrun it - by the end of the day, he stomps out of an elevator, throws himself into a limousine seat and takes a first conscious breath in whatever how long. Out of breath, somehow. Tie loosened, somehow, and Dean doesn't remember when he did that. Or opened the first two buttons of his shirt. As if someone pressed 'fast forward' on him.

Still with his glasses on, Dean's eyes find focus in the darkness of Sam's eyes. Opposite to Dean, leg thrown over the other, glass of whiskey firm in between hand and mouth. Stretching long and dark, watching, looming. Relaxed.

Dean takes another breath. Part of him considers taking off the glasses, folding and putting them away, but the task seems too strenuous.

Sam notes, "You're sweating."

Eyes fixed on Sam. "Yeah." A useless hand over a (probably) shining forehead comes away wet; no surprise. Eyes fixed on Sam.

A silent drive. Sam must sense Dean's exhaustion and grants him these thirty minutes of Friday evening traffic for himself. It's a gift; Dean knows, is aware, and that makes being grateful rather impossible. Reminds too much of what Sam needs him rested for, later.

This first weekend under the contract will be so much different from last week, and wasn't that not too long ago either? Dean can't remember. He startles and stops chewing his nails before he has done too much damage and silently curses himself, twists and turns his hand to get a proper overview over what he did to his manicure. Sam must be watching him do it. It's not like Dean could avoid being studied so closely, sure, but he has a feeling he doesn't really care at this point. There are other things to worry about.

Which Dean doesn't dare to worry about. Won't touch them with a ten foot pole, with a gun to his temple.

When Dean takes the next breath, they are in front of the apartment already, at the front door at the next, and Dean still has his glasses on. A gentle hand on his lower back outside, a soft kiss to his temple inside. Has the sound of the door lock always been so earsplittingly loud?

Maybe Dean is hyperventilating because Sam's voice soothes him now, coos _easy_ and _hey_. A question - does Dean want to shower? Dean says yes. Can Dean handle it himself or does he need help? Dean says he can do it alone. Sam supports him while walking, helps him undressing, sits on the edge of the bathtub while Dean showers. Stretching long and dark, watching, looming. Relaxed.

Something kisses Dean's mouth while he is being rubbed dry. It's a wet kiss, too, definitely more weight in it than necessary, just like the towel on his skin (but that's for helping circulation, right?). Dean has his eyes closed. He tells his arms to raise and to cling to Sam's shoulders, but they won't move.

"Are you hungry?"

"No."

"When did you last eat?"

"I don't know."

"Hm," says Sam. "Come."

Sam fixes dinner after seating a wrapped in a towel Dean at the kitchen island: steamed vegetables, a small serving of whole grain rice - no salt or fat in any particle of the dish. A hunger Dean didn't know he carried overruns him. He wolves down the entire meal.

"Do you want some more? I can make more if you want."

"I'm good. Thank you. I'm good, Sam."

"Okay."

Sam's smile is so soft. It's not this soft that often. Sam's 'kitchen' smile. Sam's 'showering and pampering other people' smile (unlikely but not impossible that it's for nobody but Dean, right?). Sam puts away the dishes and guides Dean to the bedroom. Just when Dean realizes, hesitates, crumbles, Sam assures, "Just lie down. Easy. I'm not going to do anything. You can trust me. Come on, lie down. Yeah, there you go."

The sheets are cold as in 'not warmed yet'. Dean blinks up to the ceiling and tries to relax when gentle touches to his white-knuckled towel-grip tell him to.

Deep breath. In. Out. You are okay.

"Do you need anything? Are you cold?"

"I'm fine," someone says. Dean's mouth tastes fuzzy.

Dean keeps watching the ceiling while he hears Sam settling in, maybe lying down next to him (but Dean doesn't feel like turning his head to see). The fingers keep playing over his hands. Two calm sets of breath. Dean keeps watching the ceiling.

"What is it that stresses you out so much?"

Dean's lips part, but halfway through, he realizes he has no answer.

"Is it the cage? Or the contract? That I want to have sex with you?" It's supposed to help but just turns Dean's tongue drier. And Sam is so gentle. Speaks so carefully. Truly caring. "Come on, talk to me. Please. I want to help. Tell me what's going on."

 _He can't tell him that._ "It... it's all so new, and... confusing. And. Everything feels weird."

"Weird?"

"As in _physically_ ," Dean quickly corrects. "I've, uhm... Last time I've been this hairless, I was ten years old." A grumpy face. Yeah. Good. Humor makes everything better.

A hum from next to Dean. "Okay... I see. It's gone now though, so you'll have to wait for it to grow back one way or the other. You'll get used to it sooner than you think." Dance of tip-tap over the back of Dean's hands. Long, gentle fingers. "My plan was to repeat the procedure every three weeks. But maybe let's first see how you are by then, okay?"

Dean lets that sink in, tries to accept it. That pain - every three weeks. Better get used to the idea, Smith.

Sam wears an expression that could be boredom or relaxation. Not much emotion. With his head propped up on his hand, his arm and line of neck resemble a triangle. One soft caress finds its way up Dean's peach-fuzzed forearm. "I really enjoy taking care of you."

Something in Dean has to smile at that, even if only weakly. Muscle control does not always come naturally for Dean. "I can see that." _You're always so good to me, Sam._

Smiling is contagious and Dean is glad, immediately relaxes at the sight of his lover's dimples, adores the sight of them pressing into those cheeks. That pretty mouth asks Dean if he is familiar with autogenic training and Dean nods a little silly, says yeah, yeah he is. If Sam should try to do that for him? He has no tapes or anything but they had some kind of anti-burnout workshop a few years back and maybe something happened to stay stuck. Dean says yeah, he'd love to. Dean has had several mediations like this before, just never guided by someone he knew (let a alone someone he knew this intimately), never with a voice that gentle. What Sam lacks in practice is compensated by his voice and scent and closeness. Dean soon finds himself breathing easier than he thought he was physically able to.

Relax all muscles.

Feel where your body is in contact with the bed.

Pay attention to your breath. Feel it filling you up, entering you, exiting you.

Calmness finds its ways into Dean Smith's mind. Dean exists, is aware of his existence, but there is no weight and no worry to carry anymore. Washed away.

Dean Smith's body and mind are two beings now, and Dean Smith's mind is curling like smoke, overseeing everything - stretching long and dark, watching, looming.

Relaxed.

There is a long, peaceful silence. It holds itself upright until someone tells Dean to gently start coming back, to wriggle his fingers and toes. Easy, slow and easy. Yeah. Good. Dean stretches, yawns, stretches some more. When he looks up to Sam who hasn't moved an inch, he is met with a smile. Dean returns it.

"Was that okay?"

"You kiddin' me? You're _good_ at this."

"Thank you."

Dean makes a hushed sound, something like laughter but with more air. Lungs too wide, chest too open. Dean runs his fingers through his own hair, feels the towel shifting on his bare skin, hears the quiet jingle of metal on metal. Repeats the laughter.

"Are you better?"

"Yeah." Again. Closing of eyes, all warm and safe, and Sam is such a great man, takes such good care. Better than anything Dean deserves.

Sam asks, "Is it okay with you if I kiss you?" and Dean wraps his arms around Sam's neck not much longer, maybe shortly after that one moment it took Dean to nod and smile his approval; and Sam tastes so _lovely_. Dean feels really good now, like after a solid nap. Sam doesn't bring the French kissing in until Dean does, and Dean feels himself shivering at the slow slide of hands over his shoulder and arm.

This. This is what Dean had missed. This gentleness, this soft and endlessly forgiving side of his Mr. Wesson.

"Are you okay with a little more?"

The fact alone that he is asked for consent is making it so much easier to give a quick and honest, "Yeah," together with a nod, an anticipating fluttering of lashes. Something curls and unwinds underneath Dean's skin. Yeah. He _wants_ this. "Just nothing, uh, nothing _too_... Y'know?"

"Yeah," Sam nods as if he was the one taking orders now. Another present for Dean, and Dean _dwells_ in this one.

Sam makes his obligatory run for The Room and Dean uses the time for a quick manual check-up. The weight of the cock cage still is unusual, just as the smoothness of his balls. Dean rolls them in his palm, other forearm pushing his upper body from the bed, gaze drifting to the windows. Just feeling, not seeing. When he hears the lock being handled a second and last time across the corridor, Dean quickly lets go of himself, now pushes himself up on both elbows and waits like that. The towel barely covers him anymore, but he doesn't mind.

Steps and movements falter for the time it takes Sam to take in the view on his bed, probably, and Dean can't help but feel something rushing through him - not exactly pride, no, but excitement, maybe. Sam's eyes clearly travel along the line of Dean's body; Dean sees the slightest upwards pull of a corner of a mouth. Then a shaking of head, a soft, endearing huff of a laugh. Dean thinks that if he wasn't in chastity right now, his cock would at least be _starting_ to show interest.

"God, you're beautiful."

"Yeah?"

"Very much so, yes."

Dean smirks at that because it takes so much less time than protesting, watches Sam sitting down at the edge of the foot of the bed and rearranging the items he brought next to his thighs, out of Dean's sight.

"I know you don't think so yourself," Sam adds seemingly out of nowhere, has his head turned where he handles the unknown.

An airy snort from Dean for that. "We can't all have your level of self-assurance, Mr. Narcissus."

"That's how you see me?" Still no eye contact.

"Yeah. I mean, it's right there. I couldn't miss it if I tried."

Soft sounds. Something definitely metallic together with something different; Dean has no idea what it could be. His heart is quickening its efforts in the hope Sam will stay true to his words. _Nothing too...!_ Whatever Dean wanted to say with that. However Dean wanted to end that sentence.

"It is nice of you to say that," Sam hums. "Thank you." The man turns to Dean then. Dean eyes the new item in that hand with hesitation when Sam catches his attention by calmly asking if he knows what a silent safe word is. Dean says he doesn't, no, but that he can guess what it's for if Sam will use the device on him his hand is cradling in this very moment.

Sam raises one single, beautiful eyebrow at that and Dean pretends he isn't aware of how bratty he is acting. Not much thought to it from Dean's side as he suggests two taps of a hand, no matter where. And if Sam ties up his hands? _Hm_ , Dean ponders, still kind of floating, still feeling on display and surprisingly good about it, in that case: two thumbs up.

"No blindfold this time?"

"No. I just felt like you would feel safer if you could still see. Does it bother you? Should I get it for you?"

"Not really."

"Okay."

"... Isn't this thing gonna... I mean, couldn't it harm my teeth?"

Sam rolls the ball part of the gag in his palm. It looks small there, but Sam's hand is gigantic, after all. It might be bigger than it looks once it's in his mouth, right? "No. Don't worry. Rubber is uncomplicated. I have seen people bite down on these pretty hard. There never was a problem."

"... Okay."

"Really? You can tell me if you are scared. I won't hold it against you."

Dean Smith glares. "I'm not scared."

"Are you sure, pet?" and Sam looks almost amused. Typical.

Only one way to answer; even though Dean puts more sarcasm into it than he thinks he should get away with. "Yes, sir."

"Hm. Very good. You remembered."

Sam starts sitting up to get closer to Dean and Dean doesn't move an inch, doesn't flinch or draw back. No. He feels good. "That's my job though, right? Doing what you tell me to do."

Sam clicks his tongue as he leans into Dean's space. "Indeed." Thumb and eyes to Dean's bottom lip. The thumb pushes and then pulls it down; the eyes zero in on maybe the spotless flash of white of Dean's teeth. "Open your mouth."

Dean does so immediately, all the while waits for Sam's eyes to return, wants them to meet his own, wants Sam to see how not scared he is.

One slow blink and it does happen - Sam's eyes on Dean's own, sharp and dark and Dean can feel a hint of what can make this dangerous, what _made_ it dangerous before. But tonight is different.

Maybe Sam knows he went overboard. Maybe it will not always be like yesterday. Maybe...

"Stick your tongue out." When Dean does so, Sam's thumb pushes down on it, keeps it firm on the floor of Dean's mouth. Dean tastes rubber. The stretch to his jaw forces something in Dean to immediately test the options left for him to move. Tries to grind his jaw, to flex his tongue - it doesn't get him far. Hint of panic. Realization he won't be able to swallow, tries, and no. Dean's throat makes a pitiful clicking sound, dry and wet at the same time, desperate to close up.

The ball barely has any give to it, sure, but what makes Dean look for Sam's eyes is the pulling and then buckling of the leather strap. Even less freedom, even more pressure; the thing sits tight enough now for Dean to be aware of the metal rings, how they must be leaving o-shaped imprints in his cheeks. Another try to swallow brings nothing but desperation about how spit starts collecting in the corners of his mouth.

A sweet thumb runs over Dean's lips. Sam's expression is still gentle. Dean tries to keep his breath from slipping away. "Now lie down. Extend your arms to the side." Dean does so. The change in position does nothing to shift the gag, but Dean's lower jaw seems to want to slip down and thus increases the stretch. By the time he realizes this, Sam already has Dean's left wrist wrapped in a leather cuff. Dean watches said cuff being secured to the nearest bedpost also equipped with a cuff; the two parts being connected by a snap hook. Sam moves over to Dean's right side and Dean watches his fingers flex. Unflex. Softest pull; minimal movement. Dean feels his second wrist being tied and closes his eyes.

Hands on his face. Dean feels fingers bumping over the leather strap, reluctantly opens his eyes when he is turned to face where Sam must be.

Sam is crouching over him and still hasn't shed his gentle attitude. The touches to Dean's face are soothing, and Dean can't help but to melt into them when they shove under and behind his ears, into his hair, down his neck. They hold up the eye contact through all of it, until Sam bends down to start kissing. Temples first, then forehead, over Dean's ear, his throat.

The sensation of his own chest's heaving seems overwhelming. Dean's eyes yearn to slip closed again. He lets them.

Just look at you, Smith. Always making such a scene but here you are getting all tingly for it, aren't you?

Hypocrite.

Dean would say that isn't the truth if Sam's weight and warmth on top of him wouldn't be so much better with his arms stretched out, out of his own control.

Dean gives a faint chuckle which makes Sam look up, makes him smirk and ask, "What's so funny, hm? Are you havin' fun, pet?"

Dean groans. Smiling around the gag feels ridiculous. Sam probably can't even tell he's doing it - then again, he's seen several people like this, right? Tied up. Gagged. God knows what else he did with those other people.

If Sam was exactly like this with them, too? Did he kiss them like he is kissing Dean, touch them like he is touching Dean? What was different? In what way were these _other people_ different?

Sam hums, "Wrap your legs around me," so close to Dean's cheek that Dean can feel the warmth of his breath, but Dean hesitates at that, after the first movement of his legs parting, already willing to obey.

No. Not like this.

"C'mon. No need to be afraid." A strong hand on Dean's thigh, shoving, pulling - calm but steady through it all until Dean's leg is hiked up. It's kept there.

Dean feels like blinking, like tossing his head. His leg is jerking in Sam's grip but nothing goes far tonight. A desperate sound escapes.

"Dean, stay with me. C'mon. Trust me. I'm not gonna do it, I promise. Just relax. Let me do this. Let me take care of you."

Dean nods, wants to believe in that, yeah - yeah, Sam is not going to hurt him, it's alright, just listen, Smith, goddammit, get it together. Kisses just above the gag's strap for that, and Dean tries hard to push his face into Sam's instead of away from him; succeeds, actually.

When Sam pulls back, Dean's body tries to raise with him but he flops down once his shoulders are reminded that there is nowhere to go. A first drop down the corner of Dean's mouth announces itself, and Dean huffs with it, only quickening the process of his spit running down his cheek. Dean frowns, knows he must be, and Sam's eyes calm him in silence while another, wider strap is secured around Dean's folded leg below the knee, trapping calve against back of thigh. The feeling is odd. Not like anything Dean knew before.

Dean becomes aware of his own quickening breath when there's another snap hook. A long leather strap. Sam's body stretches beautifully as he connects Dean's bound leg to the strap, then the bed post his wrist is already secured to, and Dean watches closely again, watches the hook opening and closing. So effortless. Such a perfect tool in its simplicity.

The other leg follows and the exposure is undeniable now. Almost obscene. Dean can only imagine how he must look - spread apart. _At my mercy_ , he repeats in his head and in Sam's voice, and his cock gives a dull throb in its cage.

Maybe he's shaking, if only a little. Sweat? Definitely. Dean Smith's heart is somewhere deep in his ears.

Sam sits back on his haunches, one hand each on Dean's knees. Dean feels too strung out to try moving his feet or toes, just feels an intensified urge to swallow when Sam's palms run down his waxed shins, up to his knees again, then to the back of his thighs - and down.

The very tip of Sam's tongue slips out, maybe unconsciously, to wet his lip. "Did you see that there are bruises here? On your ass?"

Dean gives a faint nod. A deep exhale brings more spit to bubble out around the gag.

"I thought about that today. About you, examining yourself in the mirror in my bathroom. Remembering what it was that put them there. _Who_ put them there."

Palms lifting up to become nothing but fingertips, and they run down Dean's glutes until they crowd in to pull him apart, to show even more, and Dean's chest and balls go tight at that.

"And I thought that... every time you felt them... every time you sat down, bumped into something, every time your clothes were shifting over them... that every one of these times, you'd think of me."

Dean isn't sure if he should nod, if he should try any form of communication at all, but the sensations of Sam's fingers feeling him up - brushing over his hole, from tailbone to very top of taint and back - are keeping him incapable of most conscious things anyway, really. How different it is with his skin this smooth. Feels closer, more dangerous. Dean feels as naked as he hasn't for a long, long time. Maybe even comparable to the first time being naked with Sam in general.

He wants to cover himself. To keep himself hidden from fingers and eyes and _nodon'tthinkaboutit_. Part of Dean Smith though (and isn't that sad) has to remind him that he _can't_ , that it's not in his power, his control.

And another part whispers: _good_.

"I'd like to show you something." Oh, has Sam been talking this whole time? What did Dean miss? But Dean can't ask.

Sam bends down to get something from next to or under the bed (Dean isn't sure), and his hand comes back with something that looks like a torture tool. Must be. _Is_. That's the whole idea, right? How these things work. Dean tries to inhale deeply through his nose but his mouth is too wide open, won't let him use that backdoor, so an embarrassing, wet grunt echoes in the room instead.

"Shhh, I know," coos Sam, one hand still between Dean's legs, the other rolling the device in its palm. The countless strings shift softly with the movement. "Looks cruel, huh? But it can be very gentle, too."

Sam's eyes would give Dean help, sure, but he can't take his eyes off the imminent danger in form of that _thing_ which now is lowered and lowered until the leather strings come in contact with Dean's skin. A soft swing and they tickle over his belly. Soft leather. Very, very soft leather. Dean stares down his heaving chest.

"Shhh. Relax, Dean."

Dean tries to, he really, really does. His eyelids flutter when the strings move down, tease down his lower belly, then his pubis, balls. Sam guides them up the exposed insides of Dean's thighs and Dean can feel his ass tensing against Sam's fingertips.

More spit. Some of it starts drying stickily on the side of Dean's neck. Dean lets his head fall to the side, into the pillow. Relax.

It goes on for a while - slow shifting, gentle contact, faint tickling. Dean shivers every now and then. Sam knows him too well anyway, but tied up and under the pull of his bindings, Dean's body is even more sensitive than usual. He squirms when the strings run up his ribs, his armpits, back of upper arms. Then again, he cranes his neck _to make room_ for it to caress him there.

Pretty fucked up, Smith.

Yeah, maybe.

Dean's consciousness comes back with the clear realization of his eyes being closed because they _squeeze_ , because something changed, because the shifting of the strings became faster when he wasn't paying attention and now they pull away and then flick back - still gentle, still soft, but Dean's body is alert to this change.

He said he wouldn't hurt me tonight.

He never _said_ that, idiot.

I trust him.

Sam's voice from somewhere in front and over Dean says, "Shhh-shhh-shhh," and Dean realizes he is whimpering, low and breathless, and his eyes jolt open to stare at his cuffed wrist, then slam back shut when the hits come a little harder. "Just feel, pet, just _feel_. This is not pain. Pay close attention. Nothing for you to do right now but to simply _feel_. Let go."

Dean's heart is racing, his jaw aching, his cheek streaked with spit, and the sensations are overwhelming him but he tries to concentrate on Sam's voice, on what it wants him to do. The impact of the tool leaves a sting first, then warmth. Sting, warmth. Sam creates lines of this warmth down Dean's sides, then his stomach, then back to where he started. Dean can hear the very quiet rustling when Sam lunges the device and the little smack that comes when it hits his skin, can hear his own rattling breath; can't hear Sam at all.

The first hit of it between Dean's legs make him jolt.

"Don't hold your breath."

Dean doesn't and whimpers because he's still tender where Sam hits him now, so different, so much more sensitive here. Heat blooms right under his skin, on it, over it, seeps deeper, and Sam slowly picks up the intensity with every strike. He switches back to Dean's upper body when Dean whines, but doesn't let up when Dean whines again under the new harshness on his now already teased skin on his chest.

I don't know what else you expected.

No, it's _different_.

How is this different from yesterday? He's hitting you, _again_.

I have my safe word. I can stop this if I want.

And you don't use it because...? You want this?

Dean doesn't know.

The tool hisses through the air now, and Dean misses the impact noise because he grunts at the very same time, every time. It gets him between his legs, again, and Dean's body wants to rise again, eyes snapping open, seeing Sam with his mouth tight and his eyes wide and incredibly alive, hungry, and Sam moves in closer on his knees, keeps eye contact, rubs over Dean's by now sweat-damp ass.

The hitting stops and Dean doesn't dare to look down his body until Sam uses his free hand to rub where he had hit before. Red - heated - Sam's palms soothing the stinging, leaving nothing but this warm, numbing tingling. Dean whimpers again and Sam shushes again, bends down, kisses Dean's forehead now and Dean cranes his neck because he wants more of that, more gentle kisses and to kiss Sam back, more skin contact, closeness.

Sam whispers, "Good?" and Dean tries to swallow again as he nods quickly, wildly, and he is sure the hitting will start anew now. It doesn't. Instead, Sam groans or sighs (something in between) and lowers himself, covers Dean who feels on fire and alive and sweating, and Dean can feel the heat of Sam's skin through the layers of clothing Sam is somehow still wearing. Still the shirt and slacks from earlier, from work, all softened through this long day at the office, still tiny little pieces of work and outer world stuck to it, and Dean has nothing, only his skin, all clean and bare and Sam owns every square inch of it.

Temples tucked tight against each other, Dean can now hear Sam's breathing, wants to throw his arms around his lover at the realization that it's upset, too, that Sam's out of breath for him, and Dean only faintly is bothered by how Sam humps at his ass. Said 'faintly' disappears even though Dean's neck is being kissed all lovingly when Sam reaches down and between them to open his slacks' zipper. Dean squirms, grunts, tries to pull back from the contact, but nothing works in the slightest, naturally.

"Shhh, I'm not gonna put it in, don't worry, I'll just, let me..."

Sam's raw dick slides along the crease of Dean's ass.

Dean's stomach turns. Keep breathing. Stock still. Keep breathing.

"Yeah... Like that... Shhh, hey, it's okay, Dean, it's okay, I'm not hurting you, aren't I? Here... Feel me... Just feel me..."

Dean feels. Feels the slick, smooth tissue of Sam's cockhead rubbing against him, up and down, slow rolls of hips. Hears Sam's breath hitching, shuddering, feels the heat on top of his body accumulating, how Sam's body is strung in what could be pleasure or restraint.

"God, you feel so good. I've wanted this for so long. You have no idea how..."

The sentence trails off and Dean doesn't mourn the fact that it does. Sam keeps rubbing at him with his cock, and the quickly building intensity tells Dean that Sam is not far from coming. Good.

Dean's head is being turned by two hands. Sam must balance his weight on his elbows, maybe next to Dean's head.

"Hey, look at me. Look at me, pet. _Pet_."

Dean opens his eyes.

Sam is right in front of him, his hips still working himself against Dean, and Dean feels nothing.

Sam presses their foreheads together and still stares, so Dean stares back, both of them cross-eyed that close up but that doesn't matter. Dean's jaw aches.

The humping dies down until it's only a faraway rustling of Sam's clothes. There are thumbs digging into Dean's cheeks; he knows.

Then, Sam pulls back.

Dean watches him sinking back on his haunches, sees his straining cock glistening wet, jutting up his lap, how a hand wraps around it. A few strokes - and Sam tucks himself back into his pants. Dean watches.

Sam explains, rather matter of fact, rather quiet, "Until I'm inside you, I won't come again."

Dean feels nothing.

Dean continues to feel nothing when Sam lies back down on top of him or when Sam kisses him again, kisses everywhere he had hit, where Dean must be scarlet red or where it already is fading again (it truly didn't _hurt_ ). He hears himself sighing though when Sam mouths down his pelvis, flicks a tongue over Dean's balls and sucks on them just a little, then licks lower, maybe just to tease. Dean feels his body flinching but Sam doesn't push his tongue inside. That's a relief, somehow. Dean feels himself taking a deep breath when Sam withdraws from his ass and starts unbuckling the straps on his legs.

It takes a while for Sam to undo the bindings but it can't be much longer than it took him to arrange them in the first place, Dean thinks (wonders). Dean watches the fingers of his right hand curl and flex on top of the bed, and thinks that this doesn't hurt, either. He doesn't feel like moving even though he would be able to now.

Sam's mouth and fingers smoothen over Dean's face, little kisses and touches while the strap here is undone, too, and Dean's jaw would groan if it could when the ball gag is finally freed from between his teeth. Sam's thumbs wipe at leftover spit. Dean's mouth is kissed before it could get used to its regained freedom, before too-dry lips could be soothed by a tongue. Sam takes care of that for him, though.

As Dean is drifting in this ever-present warmth, his body feels too tired to move. A thought passes - is he even breathing anymore? But Sam seems unfazed, still kisses him, still touches him, and when Dean pays really close attention, he can feel said touches, too. So he must still be conscious. Okay.

"Give me a second," someone says, probably Sam, but it's nothing important. Weight lifts off of Dean, air touches him, and his arm curls itself closer to his body. His entire body follows without Dean's control, rolls him onto his side, knees drawn tight. He realizes he's shivering. Shaking.

Weight, no, _warmth_ settles back in, so intense and _here_ , and Dean can't help but gasp, to draw his eyebrows tight, to reach out behind him where arms circle him, where a mouth presses itself against the back of his neck.

"Sam."

"I'm here."

"Sam." Then, "Please."

"I know, I know. Shhh. It's alright. I've got you."

Sam's hair between Dean's fingers and Sam's naked skin surrounding him, against him, overflowing into his own, Dean accepts. Accepts that he is here, that Sam is here, and that they are here _together_. One, in a way. Hugging so close it feels like it, at least, and that it feels _good_.

Good. Feels good. See?

Sam kisses him again and whispers, "I've got you."

Kisses to Dean's hairline drive goosebumps under his skin. He presses his mouth to Sam's forearm, reciprocates as much as he can. It's not much. Never enough.

"Let's sleep. You should sleep, pet. I won't move an inch. You'll wake up and I'll be right here. I promise."

"Sam."

"Shhh. Just sleep. I've got you. I've got you."

In his long, death-like sleep, Mr. Smith dreams of Stanford.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please watch out for (heavily) **dubious consent** and (just as heavy) **dissociation** in this chapter.

The first thing he does the next morning is to roll over and kiss Sam. (A lie: the very first thing is to realize Sam is still holding him, thus being overtaken by emotions, then doing said thing.) Both hands on Sam’s face and his tongue next to his boss’ more sooner than later and Sam makes a confused, sleepy sound which Dean swallows down immediately. It takes a few moments of grasping what is happening, and then Sam starts kissing back.

They roll over again – Dean on top now, Sam on his back. Hands in Dean’s hair, scratching lovingly. Dean hums in satisfaction. The dream starts to fade away – thank god.

Sam moans, “Fuck, I have to piss,” but at the same time shoves Dean down into his lap, latches on to Dean’s bared neck. Dean digs his elbows deeper into the mattress and his fingers deeper into Sam’s hair. The cock twitching against his hip fills out as quickly as ever and his own is packed tight in its cage. A needy sound. Jealousy. Two days so far.

Hands slide from hip to ass and Dean arches his back for it, for the deep growl behind Sam’s teeth that are currently clamped on his skin and _pull_. Sam spreads Dean’s ass open to the room and Dean humps back on the fingers that stroke over his hole. Not much thought to that. It feels kind of good. The only outlet he is allowed to have, right?

The dream threatens to come back into Dean’s consciousness, but Sam isn’t too far and lets Dean kiss him all–too eagerly, doesn’t ask or doubt or anything, just keeps his fingers working. It’s only when a dry finger tries to press inside that Dean hisses, forces his body tight.

Sam smacks his ass and chuckles at the frown tugging on Dean’s forehead. “Two minutes and you’ll come to the bathroom. I want you all cleaned out today.”

“Okay,” and that one comes out a little funny with Dean’s bottom lip caught in between Sam’s teeth.

So Sam gets up and Dean listens to him piss across the corridor and through an open door, then the toilet flushing, then cabinets opening, closing, equipment announcing itself. Dean can feel his cheek pressing warm against the bedding.

So Dean comes to the bathroom, just in time to meet Sam leaving it and to earn a kiss to his cheek, a grab to his ass. Two rounds of water, listening to it slushing around in his belly when he gets up to expel it. Not much thinking beyond that. Everything is empty.

Something in Dean wants to cry in relief when there is no frying scent in the air, no bacon or eggs to be seen. Chopped apple, tea. Sam handfeeds him and that isn’t degrading, somehow. More like close, intimate. Feels good. Sam kisses Dean a lot in between bites of breakfast, tastes of English muffin he must have had while Dean was still busy in the bathroom. The air around them is cold on Dean’s naked skin but he doesn’t shiver, and neither does Sam, just as naked.

More kisses before and after brushing of teeth. They are having an ongoing conversation, have had from when Dean had come to the table, but they are keeping their voices low even though that doesn’t seem to make much sense to Dean. He is light, heavy. Sam is warm and that helps, makes it easier to breathe. Sam’s skin is incredibly smooth.

The living room is flooded with sunlight, curtains drawn closed. The back of Dean’s knees knock against the couch. Sam helps him lowering down on it, mouth on Dean this whole time, still mumbling. Dean can’t tell what Sam says or if he answers. Put your hands on his arms, squeeze a little, feel. Feel it, him, his skin, his flesh. He’s here with you.

Arousal comes and goes in unpredictable intervals and ends up simmering low underneath Dean’s skin. Slightly breathless, dick uncomfortably pulsing against the inside of the metal bars. Sam kisses across Dean’s body, and his hair tickles where it brushes, leaving Dean blinking without seeing. When Sam puts the blindfold on him, Dean feels more complete than without it.

“Let yourself go,” Dean hears, a whisper through the constant murmuring in his head, and Sam’s tongue is slipping into his mouth.

His legs are spread at some point, bracketing Sam’s so incredibly narrow hips, and Sam is still kissing him, petting him. Sam’s cock rests between them, heavy, and Dean knows it’s waiting. Knows what’s about to happen, somehow, and yet doesn’t. Part of him has accepted while the other hasn’t even caught up with what is going on at all. Why is he scared again? Nothing makes sense.

Sam’s hands wrap around Dean’s forearms and he kisses Dean’s knuckles, every single one. Dean thinks of prayer bead necklaces, imagines Sam with the bones of his hands dangling around his neck like fine jewelry, and lets out a heedless giggle at that for nobody but himself. He hears Sam’s responsive sound then, hears it loud and clear and suddenly he’s tight, breath caught somewhere, skin covered in ice–cold sweat. Sam gets him upright and there’s a sting to Dean’s cheek before he can gasp for air again. A thumb in his mouth, down on his tongue, and Dean’s head is throbbing.

He doesn’t want to. But what doesn’t he want to? Where are they again?

Dean’s chest won’t heave and he realizes he’s lying on his stomach now, arms behind his back. His own breathing is sharp in his ears, eyes wide open behind the blinding black. Muscles roll, make bindings palpable. Rope, softly burning over the salt of sweat. When Dean swallows, it feels like his throat has been dried out for hours.

He, well, part of Smith, tries to make a sound, but something else won’t let him, doesn’t allow, is ashamed; both – or maybe confused?

Too much. Too much.

The weight of Sam’s arm across his lower back, holding it in place. Dean’s head snaps back, body shuddering, fingers numb. Sam’s tongue laves over and into his ass. Happy sounds. Maybe Sam has an oral fixation, surely likes to eat; Dean will never understand that about him. The sensations puzzle Dean, seem too much but then ebb away as they are identified as familiar. A sigh ripples through Dean, makes his skin crawl, and Sam hums approvingly. Dean is unsure if his feet are on the ground or not – would it be important to know?

Sam is a good kisser, wraps and curls his lips so well, no matter the place. Almost feels like he is kissing Dean all over; Dean imagines that now, can practically _feel_ it, becomes aware of his own groaning as his chest rumbles with it, is shortly back, present, then drifts again.

He should say something, probably. Sounds like a reasonable thing to do. Or is this normal? Maybe it’s normal.

“Ow, _fuck_ ,” someone mutters, and Dean realizes it’s himself, flushes hot at the suddenly clear fact that Sam is chewing on what he can get between his teeth – beginning of starburst folds of skin, tender insides of ass cheeks, hairless and exposed, taint, and Sam laps again, like a dog would, and Dean turns his head into the couch, frowns, doesn’t succeed in holding in the next noise.

Static noise between Dean’s ears until pain curls, burns like fire, and the whiplash from Sam’s palm on his ass makes him haul for air even though he hadn’t thought he’d held his breath; doesn’t feel like it, enough air, what is happening? Something lifts his feet, one after the other. More weight balanced on his belly and chest. The pull on his arms doesn’t make much sense until Dean deciphers it, drooling and sweating from the exertion it takes him to do so.

Dean Smith hears his own breathing, smells the hint of lavender in the air, his own and Sam’s sweat, conscious of every inch of skin, every muscle pulling, holding. His teeth are buried in the towel underneath his body, hands and feet loose, hanging in their boundaries. A testing tension in his limbs gets him nowhere. Your legs are tied at the ankles, fixed, not rope; a metallic sound, distant, and your arms and your feet are connected – your knees are spread so wide you couldn’t roll over on your side if you tried, wouldn’t get the leverage.

Something slips around Dean’s neck – skin and yet not – and the slightest contact with Sam’s fingers make him lean into the touch. Dean’s heart is hammering up into his throat, eyes blind and wide, jaw clenched, ears straining. The something around his neck fastens ( _is_ fastened) and makes breathing less rewarding, not enough to choke but enough to feel it, and Sam’s fingers slide up into Dean’s hair to stroke him behind his ear.

“Sam.”

“No. Say ‘sir’.”

Who’s Sir? “Sir.”

“Are you alright?”

“Yes.”

“Is the collar too tight?”

Col–lar. “No.”

“Wriggle your toes.”

Pet does.

“Remember what I said about your mouth.”

_Say ‘thank you, sir’ whenever he puts something, anything, into your mouth._

Dean’s tongue tastes leather, plastic. His teeth clench but it won’t hurt. It’s exhausting to bite down so hard, so he stops, hauls in air through his nose, squeezes his eyes tight to shut out the damn lightning bolts.

 _Say ‘thank you, sir’ whenever he–_ “Han hiu, hir.”

Pain – keening – more pain. It’s loud.

“That’s for not saying it yesterday when I put the gag on you.”

“I’n swhy, hir.” Dean feels like sobbing, choking.

More pain; Dean flinches, ropes burn him.

“Say ‘thank you for punishing me, sir’.”

“Han hiu hor–” Dean’s voice doubles over, knees thrashing without a way to go, back arching. The hits keep coming and his skin is hissing.

“‘For _punishing_ me, sir’,” Sam reminds. Keeps hitting.

“Hor, hor, hor hunish–, hunishi whe, hir.” Doesn’t make any sense; Sam can’t even _understand_ him (nobody could). Dean cries in anticipation for the next hit already but is left without it, gasping, spewing spit with every exhale.

“Very good.”

Dean Smith hears himself sobbing.

“Relax. Calm down. You’re fine.” I’m fine. I’m fine. “I’m here. I’m taking care of you. I’ve got you.”

He’s got you and you’re fine, you’re fine, you’re fine. You did good and oh what’s, oh, his fingers – you’re wet, they slip – inside? – maybe, difficult to tell, overstimulated, consistent burn, need to, need...

“Here, this will help. Shhh. I’ve got you.”

Yes, help. Please. Help.

Pressure on Dean’s ears brings deafness first, more deafness, complete deafness. Awareness spikes, eyes wide, mouth dried out but leaking spit around the gag, teeth eager to churn but no way around the gag, and every drag of Sam’s fingers is life wired to Dean’s brain, every contracting fiber, every touch, every...

You should breathe. _Breathe_. Those hands are Sam’s. He’s here. He’s got you. Don’t you remember? He makes us feel good, that’s how he does it. It’s Sam; only Sam’s hands feel like this, grip you like that, make you feel like that.

It’s happening, you know.

Dean tells his head to thrash, but it doesn’t listen.

Smith is being breached and opens easily, doors wide open, why can’t he ever say–

The glans’ flared edge nudges inside and Dean’s body

remembers

realizes

panics

but there is nowhere to go and suddenly he’s empty full bursting aching crying but there’s nowhere to go, but Smith, he’s _got_ you, Sam, trust me pet Dean sweetheart

some people just look the type, Dean I love the wrinkles on your forehead when you frown did you finish the report yet, Smith of course I want to

Sam is inside of him and it hurts, forces him wide and it _hurts_ , pulls him tight enough to snap. Hands cradle Dean’s hips and Mr. Smith chews on the gag and pet is shaking on its towel, stomach tight and Sam is inside of it, him, everywhere; too deep and too hot, bursting, forcing

You okay?

Yeah, uh, I, y–yeah.

Dean’s eyes squeeze out tears _and he doesn’t want to_ , curls everything tight but that just makes him clench around Sam’s cock and he knows he has to relax, has to or the pain won’t go away, don’t think, just roll with it, let him in and out and don’t think.

God, Sam’s _skin_ – a heaven against Dean’s ass, hips pressed flush, balls snug, and Dean’s eyes roll back into his head when Sam withdraws, endless slide out just to force back in, taking Dean with him, rim catching and holding on, turning him inside–out. God, it’s different. So so different. ( _Why won’t you let me be in peace?_ )

Heartbeat – static noise – silence – the voices are gone for a moment and Dean can breathe, feel, be free, and it pleases him so very much that he decides to stay here, right here.

Unlock. Standby. Please hold the line.

Sam fucks him for a while, easy and slow enough for Dean to clear his head to a point where he realizes that there is no condom. Should that worry him? They’re probably both unproblematic, healthy, Sam wouldn’t be so stupid. It’s different though, right? Skin on skin, so different.

_God, feels so good._

Dean keeps his eyes closed, concentrates on the sweat pearling down his neck, on the plunging motion that drives into his guts, deep like nothing he knows, incredible that this even works, that there are nerves there to make him feel it.

You should be enjoying this, you know?

It just feels weird, though. I can’t change it.

You’re just not trying hard enough.

Pet arches his back somehow even though it pulls on Dean’s arms, legs, and Dean huffs wetly at the then sharper thumps against his backside. If Sam is panting, swearing, praising? Is he making any sound at all? What does his face look like? Maybe he’s crying. He could be crying, just like Dean. The pure idea brings more tears. Suddenly, being tied up like he is seems cruel, stupid, and Dean wants it all gone, _now_. A senseless mouth mutters something but the gag keeps him from anything but grunting, spitting, and Dean surrenders again, accepts. Maybe Sam will let him hug him later. Maybe kissing. A kiss would be nice, now.

Hands pull and angle Dean differently and taking breaths becomes more and more difficult under Sam’s thrusts. Feels like being punched, deep inside, filled and fulfilled, making heat pool in the depth of Smith’s spine, between his legs, along his breastbone. Dean can hear himself huffing, grunting, then whining when Sam goes even harder. Wow. Sounds obscene. Can he hear you, too? Kinda pathetic, buddy. Bet he watches himself sinking in and out of you, how you let him, how you swallow him without complaint. He’s wrecking you, isn’t he?

Still hurts? No, right? That’s cause you’re ruined already. Beyond repair. No refunds, sorry.

You brought this upon yourself.

(And how disgustingly _familiar_ this very thought tastes!) I know. I know.

Do you deserve anything but this?

I do not.

Then stop crying like a bitch. What is it with you, huh?

Get your shit together. You disgust me.

It’s your fault. You could have spoken up, but you didn’t.

Getting false hopes up as always, Smith? Good work.

No, it’s different. It’s not like...

Hm.

You can’t even say it, can you? Or think it. Whichever.

Liar.

God, he hates this. Hates everything about it, every second, every molecule being shaken by this. The blank space – he wants it back – ah, thank god.

How long has this been going on? Dean opens his eyes, still sees black, feels air tickling across his skin. The distant burn of muscles that have been pulled tight for too long keeps him conscious, the steady pounding empty, clear. It was to be expected; Sam’s stamina, yeah. Can’t it be over? Please?

You know it won’t. You know he’ll swallow you whole. Love does that.

Oh, come on, not that topic again.

Fine, whatever.

White, black, something. Dean waits, observes the sensations in his lower body. Stimulation of prostate, hm, kind of pleasant, but Sam is rough, so Dean doesn’t dwell there too long, returns to hovering. Dean waits.

If I was a woman, would he still do this? Would he fuck my ass or my pussy? Would he want me to go on the pill? Would he want to have a baby with me? I’d get fat because of him, bloated and firm – he’d love it. I’d carve it all out. I’d shove a coat hanger up there and not think twice.

God, Smith, you have some _serious_ issues.

The rush of semen into his intestines becomes parallel to the rush of relief, the rush of air his lungs accept, the rush of blood to where he can’t swell. He feels himself pulsing around Sam’s cock with both lust and pain, maybe still expecting further penetration, but it’s done, it’s over. Dean wants to but cannot cry.

A reluctant whine when the earphones start coming off. Not ready to face reality yet but there it is, white, unruffled noise of the room, Dean’s own and Sam’s heavy breathing slightly rattling. Dean rakes his attention across his entire body, its soaked surface. Sweat, semen, lube, okay.

“I’ll untie you now. Hold on.” Unnecessary comment but at least low and careful for Dean’s sensitive ears (and yet still piercing). Dean whines behind the gag even though Sam is slow and vigilant about each movement, handles him so kindly, but all Dean can think about is staying where he is, not moving, ever again. The urgency to be comforted is overshadowed by the urge to not allow the pain to take over.

He’s in Sam’s arms before the blindfold or gag is off, his own hands too stiff to move, to return the hold, but Sam makes up for that. Kisses rain all over Dean’s face, fingers rake through sweat-matted hair. Sam says nothing. Dean’s heart is still pounding, hard, and Sam must notice it. Pressed close to Sam’s chest, though, Dean can feel the very same violent rhythm, not far behind his own.

“Hir.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m right here.”

Kisses just above the strap of the gag, more insistent whimpering. Dean wills his arms to raise now, to go for skin contact, more, never enough, hold me and never let me go. The gag is peeled from Dean’s mouth and Sam’s hand helps him working his jaw in small circles. Dean cranes his neck and Sam delivers sweet, cautious kisses, until Dean sticks his tongue out to beg.

Some time passes – exchanging kisses and caresses, bodies pressed up close with Dean still on the couch and Sam crouching in front of it, halfway on top of Dean, and all of that is good, real good. The tension that had built up starts to fade eventually; slowly, sure, but it’s something. When Sam sighs, Dean allows himself to follow along. He hopes it sounds less shaky than it feels.

Dean must look pretty exhausted because Sam eventually proposes going to the bedroom. A short panic – how is Dean supposed to walk that distance? – but Smith forces his body to ignore and listen until he’s on his feet. Maybe not steady, but steady enough not to fall when he stumbles over the gear still scattering the floor close to the sofa; and Sam is here, too. Dean holds on to an arm and gives a fascinated glance to his feet. Rope and leather and metal. Yeah. Okay.

He lets himself drop to his back hard enough to make the mattress bounce. Spread eagle for a moment, and he’s almost okay again. There is pain, somewhere, in multiple places, but Dean is not insane enough to define any further. It’s okay. What doesn’t kill you…! Dean sighs, this time on his own, more freely. Sam fits himself next to him, head on Dean’s chest as if it was a pillow, and Dean curls his arm around his lover obediently. The room is alit with daylight. Still a way long to go until noon. Dean calculates the hours until it’s time to return to the office on Monday. A large number.

Dozing, drifting.

“How are you feeling?” Sam asks eventually, and Dean simply hums, “Good.”

“Does it hurt?”

Dean shakes his head and realizes he is lying on his side, nuzzling his own and Sam’s intertwined hands. He pulls his knees tighter to his chest. Sam’s lap follows him immediately, chasing the shared warmth, and while Dean mutters, “I’m good,” he tries to not let his voice jump at the pressure of Sam’s reappearing erection against the small of his back.

Dean curls in tighter (as if that could protect you).

“That’s good,” Sam murmurs. They are so close, almost molten into one, chest against back, and Sam has his face buried in Dean’s nape of the neck, holds him in his arms. “See, there was nothing to worry about. Right?”

“P-please, uh, please don’t do it again…”

“Hm?”

“The,” Dean stares straight ahead, sees nothing, “the earphones, all the, I. It was disorientating, I.” Harder clutch around Sam’s hand. “I wanted to hear you. See you. It was… I didn’t like it.”

“Okay.” Kisses against Dean’s neck, but Dean is frozen. “You can see and hear me now. Is that better?”

Sweat returns. Dean’s eyelids blink, rapidly. Dean’s stomach cramps when Sam detangles one of his hands from their knot to bring it between their bodies. Even though it’s not a true surprise, Dean still flinches at the sensation of a cock being pressed up against where he’s definitely still throbbing, where he can’t take to feel quite detailed but now is forced to.

Open, wet. Sam starts pushing up and inside him without much trouble.

Dean gasps (dontcrydontcrydontcry) and it comes out as a strangled chuckle. Sam’s hand comes back up, task fulfilled, and curls over Dean’s shoulder, squeezing softly, almost comforting.

“A-again?”

“I’ve waited for a very long time,” Sam explains.

Unable to withdraw as easily, the sensations are overwhelming. Dean knows he is trembling, even if only gently, in Sam’s hold, his lap. Impaled, yeah, that’s the word, and it keeps pushing and pushing until Dean frees and extends an arm behind himself, brings it down on Sam’s thigh with a shudder, gasps, just to hear, “Shhh,” and, “Almost there. Relax. Let me.” It’s too much already, must be rearranging Dean’s guts (beyond repair), pushes and pushes where Dean doesn’t seem to be capable of fitting anymore.

Its weight is incredible inside him, expanding him, making room. Shame and disgust overcome Dean at that thought, the perversion of the fact, of what is happening, what he is letting happen.

You could just say ‘no’.

No. I don’t want him to leave. He’ll leave if I don’t…

A deep, deep groan against his hairline makes Dean’s skin ripple with goosebumps. Sam holds him tighter and so Dean clutches right back, is starting to pant already with nothing but Sam’s pelvis resting up against his ass, cock rooted as deep as it will go. Pulsing. Waiting. Oh god. It will have to move.

Sam sounds so mesmerized, so absorbed when he asks, “How’s it feel?”

Suffocating. Excruciating.

“C’mon, stay with me; tell me.” A gentle rocking motion; Dean squirms, holds his breath. “Tell me how you feel.”

“Full,” Dean croaks. Bursting – burning – caught.

“Yeah? Does it hurt?”

“N-no.” Beyond repair, he’s got you, you chose this.

“That’s good,” Sam sighs.

The rhythm starts out slow, even slower as earlier, maybe (Dean has no real understanding of time anymore, even though all of this here seems to be happening in slow motion just to torture him even more). The hand on Dean’s shoulder is now roaming up and down his side, occasionally gripping his hip to keep him firm against Sam, maybe to pull him back the inches he subconsciously snuck away from Sam. Dean listens to the bedsheets rustling, to Sam’s soft breathing and wonders if his own maybe is too harsh (too obvious).

This is going to happen anyway, so why don’t you at least try to make it a little less horrible for yourself?

Dean tilts his hips in the search of more comfort but doesn’t find any. The stretch is too immense, too alien. All that helps is Sam’s skin against him, Sam’s scent surrounding him. It’s still Sam. You like him, don’t you?

Yeah. Yeah, I do.

And he’s so happy. You might not enjoy it, but just look at _him_. Yeah, look; you can literally look over your shoulder. He’s right there.

Dean cranes his neck, frowns through the exertion this brings him. He even spends a hand to roam into Sam’s hair, to tug him a little closer as a silent “please” for a kiss which he gets immediately. Combined with the deep friction inside of his ass, the slip of Sam’s tongue around his own brings a flash of heat down the back of Dean’s neck.

Dean can see Sam smirking. “Better?”

Sam brings their mouths together again once Dean pants, “Yeah,” and the movements inside Dean quicken, even if still remarkably slower compared to what had happened on the couch. Dean’s head is in a constant buzzing now, the kisses turning his mind sweetly numb and almost pleasant.

Suddenly, though, “Oh god.” Panic. Stolen breath. “Oh god. Oh god, Sam, I-“ Dean’s try to scramble away and across the bed is stopped by Sam’s grip around his chest, so Dean is left sobbing, “Ohmygod, I forgot, I, I didn’t say, p-please don’t hit me, please, I-“

“Oh,” Sam says. He stops moving – and then laughs.

Dean is close to tears.

“Shit, I totally forgot. Fuck.” Words melt into a groan with a languid roll of Sam’s hips. Sam’s mouth latches on to Dean’s neck anew but something is in the way, blocking the contact, and Dean realizes he is still wearing the collar. “Let’s forget about it, okay? Let’s just...” Sam moves instead of using further words to make his point.

The sudden shock and just as sudden relief leave Dean tense, confused – so he’s safe? Nothing will happen? Nevertheless, he plays it safe and mutters his obligatory sentence, “Thank you, sir.”

Sam chuckles into his hair for that. “God, such a good boy.” Kisses just above the collar. “How do I deserve you, huh?” The kisses continue, just like the thrusts that pick back up with time. Sam keeps muttering praise, almost too quiet to hear, but Dean concentrates on that low hum of that voice, hard, so he doesn’t miss a single word. It’s easy to float on, easy to get lost in.

Dean finds himself in a warm space where two bodies slowly merge into one. Every movement jostles them together another small bit, and the heat spreading in him, them, expands – and expands – and expands. If he wasn’t holding on and wasn’t held just as hard, he surely would feel lost, scared... but he isn’t.

He isn’t alone. Sam is with him.

Dean feels his brows knitting together with his eyes loosely fallen closed, hums a deep noise.

Sam praises it with a breathless, “Yeah,” keeps stroking Dean’s chest, shoulders, flank. “Let go. That’s it, pet. Just let go.”

A first tiny voice, somewhere deep down (but Dean is down there too, so he can clearly hear it) whispers that maybe they could get used to this. Somehow. That it won’t kill them, every once in a while. That, in a way, this is... nice.

Short memories back to Lisa, former girlfriends. Sometimes, it was like this with them, not often, but it would happen. Dean hadn’t thought about this feeling in a very long while, almost long enough to forget about it altogether. But he has it back now.

A deep, satisfying closeness where everything is well. No worries. No doubts. No responsibilities.

Not long after Dean’s first honest, shaky moan, Sam finishes. He doesn’t pull out immediately and maybe part of Smith thinks that it’s absolutely gross, but the biggest part of Dean is grateful. Grateful for the skin contact, for the huffs of breath against his neck, the heavy heartbeat drumming through his entire back, echoing his own almost perfectly. Dean is still jittering, still pulsates in this warm, shared space they have, had, unwilling to give it up just yet.

No. Not just yet.


	16. Chapter 16

The weekend drags by. Dean quickly realizes Sam wasn’t joking when he said he wouldn’t be able to think of anything else once they got started. He doesn’t complain though – at least Sam doesn’t tie him up again like he did that first time. There are things to take Dean’s mind off the obvious: he is free to hold Sam’s hands, to curl arms and legs around Sam if the position allows it. It’s not that bad, really. The closeness is good.

Sam says the diarrhea is not harmful, that Dean doesn’t have to worry. Maybe they’ll switch to condoms eventually after all, maybe, eventually. Dean agrees rather sourly, well aware that Sam is the all-or-nothing type of person who either does something immediately or never. They’re so much alike sometimes that it’s scary, that it moves and touches Dean in a way so deeply that it’s impossible to rate either negative or positive.

Sam kisses the back of Dean’s neck while he pushes in again, Sunday noon and Dean feels a little nauseated but he’s probably just exhausted. Eyes closed, hand wrapped around Sam’s forearm that’s forcing tight against Dean’s throat, Dean waits for the night to come and leave.

He wakes up on Monday with the baffled experience of a nightmare-free sleep.

That’s good, he thinks, and quietly takes his turn in the bathroom, dresses, takes a cab to work. He goes through all appointments and some extra paperwork, has a light lunch in the cafeteria, and Mr. Wesson is in the Montreal phone conference too but it’s like it always is. Everyone is smiling, making jokes, and the world is still turning and Rhonda still makes the coffee taste so much better and Speight is still making inappropriate jokes about the Chinese clients from last week. Dean takes a breath and suddenly it’s five PM already.

“Get some rest,” he advises Rhonda who looks a little off but rolls her beautifully painted eyes at him in an adorable and familiar way that makes Dean smile, reminds him that everything’s half as bad, really, that he’ll be alright and Sam will be alright and everything always has two sides.

Elevator, protein bar, gym. Dean is tired but he needs this. He forgot how exhausting sex can be (even though it’s never been this excessive with any of his partners before), and yet it doesn’t seem to give him the very same high a good workout can. Would be different, maybe, if he had come, but that’s out of the question anyway so he doesn’t feel like reminding himself of it.

“Uhm, sir?”

Dean falters in his steps to turn around.

The staff member eyes him questioningly. “You’re Mr. Smith?”

Half of the protein bar is yet to be wolfed down. The training bag is heavy. Dean nods, tries a polite but clueless smile. “I am. Is there a problem or...?”

“No, uh, it’s just...” The guy seems confused, not as professional as they usually are. There’s rustling for something on the reception desk where Dean can’t see and he hesitantly walks back to it and the employee.

Something is off. Dean wraps the packaging around the rest of the protein bar. “What is it?”

Uneasiness makes way for a slightly more relieved expression and Dean is presented with a handful of papers.

Dean doesn’t take them but frowns after a quick glance. Maybe he stiffens, maybe the bag’s straps have always cut into his shoulder like this.

“Your new workout plan, Mr. Smith,” the guy tries.

“I didn’t ask for one.”

“It says it’s a... doctor’s order? Maybe you’ve seen your cardiologist lately?”

Dean presses, “I _haven’t_ ,” but finally grabs the papers, gives them a quick read. His frown is digging deep into his forehead by now.

“Cool that you’re going for more muscle mass now, sir,” Dean hears, and he dislikes the unwanted interest as much as he dislikes the way he’s talked to like an old man by some young know-it-all, but generally he is too pissed off already to give it much more thought.

“This,” decides Dean, holding the papers up between the two of them before slamming them down on the counter, turning the staff member’s eyes wide in surprise, “is _bullshit_.”

“Ex...cuse me?”

“I didn’t order this.” Dean points a straight finger at the papers and gives his best ‘Mr. Smith, Director of Sales and Marketing’ impression. “I like my old plan, so please delete this one. I don’t have any use for it. Thank you.” And then, without giving his opponent any other chance but to accept, Dean resumes his stride towards the changing room.

Rather weakly, slightly terrified and helpless, there’s an announcement from behind Dean’s back, “It, s-sorry, but, but there’s a number on it, and I’m supposed to, uhm, call it, sir, if there’s any. Uhm. _Problem_?”

“Oh god, WHATEVER!”

Dean doesn’t feel like turning around or even stopping in his tracks. He changes and hisses a string of curses for the shaking of his hands. Earphones in, punching bag without gloves until the worst is over, until the damage on his knuckles can’t be ignored anymore and he’s already sweating profoundly. Then, treadmill.

Dean’s lungs are screaming but that’s fine, that’s perfect, that’s what he needs.

Sam can’t take this from him. Dean is willing to do a lot, a scary whole lot, but he won’t be giving _this_.

Dean runs until he can finally stop thinking and then runs some more. When he can think again and his first thought is ‘you have to stop or your heart is going to combust’, he gets off the machine as suddenly as he climbed it. Feels horrible, wonderful, empty and like flying, like dying, and that’s good, that’s great, and he wheezes his laughter into his towel.

Lukewarm shower because everything else will make him fade and he decides he’ll treat himself to a giant steak tonight, mentally goes through the suits in his wardrobe to decide which one will fit the occasion. He knows exactly which place he wants to go, has been there with Sam before a couple of times; the chef knows Dean’s preferences and it’s a nice place, nice interior, good wine but Dean doesn’t feel like drinking tonight.

On his way back to the elevator, Dean pulls out his phone to look up the restaurant’s phone number in order to make reservations. The notification for two missed calls is swept aside instantly, without much thought, and Dean gets a table for one for nine PM. His phone rings again on the way home and maybe some more after he set it to ‘silent’, but all he can think about now is the restaurant, his dinner, the easiness in his entire body pulling tight nowhere else but in his very center, where he can put his hand and feel his stomach barking at nothing.

The Dean Smith in the mirror looks healthy, happy, handsome. His hair looks great and his suit fits perfectly. One of the first real expensive ones Dean dared to buy somewhere around the end of his last job, when he knew he wanted something more and knew he’d have to up his game. He remembers clearly how powerful he had felt when he signed the check, how dutifully and demure the salesgirl was, how she definitely noticed his manicure. Girls always liked his hands. Dean rubs organic coconut oil over the split skin on his knuckles and heads downstairs where a cab is waiting for him.

Dean doesn’t touch the basket with fresh baked bread and the clever assortment of homemade dips and sauces, and maybe that’s only in his head but he learned that if he gets over this last temptation (the worst of all), the meal he _actually_ wants and needs will taste so much better. He takes his time when his steak arrives. Every bite is heaven, never enough, and he chews dutifully to make it last, to get his stomach used to the idea of getting filled. ‘Slowly’ is _crucial_. The slower you eat, the smaller the chance of overeating becomes.

When half the meal is gone and Dean’s hunger still seems insatiable, he slows down even more. Extra water, two glasses, three, four. He has enough money to get another course, easily, could get a salad on the side maybe, but he wanted this steak _and nothing else_ , so it will _have_ to do.

One and a half hour after being served, Dean tips thirty percent and a compliment to the chef before preparing to get up, outside, wave down a cab. His stomach feels like it’s bulging. Afraid that his shirt might be stretching in between the buttons, Dean keeps a conscious hand over what he presumes is the widest part.

Home, door locked. A hot bath, aroma oils, skin spa. Feels like forever since he took the time for this and his skin tells him the same.

The Dean Smith in the mirror looks beat and will have to shave again tomorrow, probably should make an appointment with his hair stylist sometime these days. Dean’s fingers run along the contours of that face, watches skin stretching and folding under dragging motions. Dean Smith looks young for his age, taken care of, never had to do physical labor in his life and will never have to because Dean Smith is smart, has great education and knows what it takes to assert oneself in the world of skyscrapers and expensive suits.

Dean Smith is, from an objective point of view, a very lucky man.

~ 

The eleven AM meeting offers a small snack and Smith pours some coffee for Masters and himself, pointedly keeps his entire focus on said task while Wesson smoothens himself right next to him. An artistic sort of sandwich cube is picked up solely for show. Sam’s cologne is making Dean’s empty stomach clench.

“Is your phone broken?”

“Maybe,” Dean mutters back just as quietly.

“You should get it fixed.”

“Hm.”

“Or,” and Dean leans to his right some more because Sam’s body seems to gravitate towards him from the left, “I could get you one CS hands out for work purposes. Pretty sure that I have a bunch in my office.” When Dean says nothing, Sam prompts, “Dean?”

“Not at work,” Dean demurs.

“It’s not me who’s behaving like a child now, is it?” Dean keeps his eyes down, pours milk into Masters’ cup. Sam isn’t touching him and yet it feels like he is. “One twenty-five, my office, no discussion.”

Sam goes back to his seat and Dean does the same, hands Masters her coffee and mutters, “You’re welcome,” even though she didn’t thank him. She gives him an irritated look but he pretends to bury himself in the data, puts his glasses on and sees nothing.

~ 

One twenty-six. “You’re late.”

Unease spreads further in Dean at the sight of Sam locking the door, but Dean says, “I’m sorry, sir,” while he tries to find a non-telling body language.

Sam says, “You’re not,” and to Dean’s relief sits back down behind his office desk instead of bolting right at Dean. Sam has his reading glasses on. They make him look even more intimidating, accentuate his cheek bones in a way that lets them appear sharp enough to cut. Dean can stand to study Sam’s face now that Sam’s eyes are not directed at him.

This, obviously, is not good.

“Would you like to say something?”

Eye contact or not, Dean now drops his gaze to the floor.

“Smith?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you calling me ‘sir’ because we’re at work or because it’s one of the conditions of what you and me signed last week?”

Dean grits his teeth. “... Work...”

“Pardon?”

“Because we’re at _work_.”

“Good for you.” Dean can _feel_ the sour smirk. “You see, though, that since this door is locked, this here is a private room, thus making this here a private matter.”

Dean flinches, takes his turn to glare at Sam over what only a second ago seemed like a safe distance. “That-“

Sam looks more relaxed than he obviously is. “Yes?”

“You can’t just, just change the rules, that’s- You said work was not-“

“I didn’t want to ask before but you’re making this real hard for me – is your hearing impaired? Are you _deaf_ , Dean? Because I think I made myself very clear just now. And also,” a dry laugh, “your phone is ‘broken’? Seriously?”

“I forgot I put it on silent,” Dean lies.

“ _Bullshit_.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose, man!”

“Oh, really?”

“Can’t I just-“ Dean squeezes his hands into fists, bolts uselessly in place. There’s anger, frustration, but he can’t let that show, is too afraid someone might notice the turmoil on the other side of the door. Sam knows that too well. It’s his setup, all of this, and Dean can’t do anything about it. “Am I not allowed to spend some time by myself? Is that what this is? Am I your goddamn _slave_ now?”

“I don’t know, Dean. _Are_ you?”

Dean says nothing, is trembling but impotent in his rage, helpless, and the entire situation is fucked up.

Sam gets up in one effortless movement, starts to slowly close in on Dean. “What is it that you are, Dean?”

Dean stares at his feet and grits his teeth.

Sam has now come to circling Dean in a very, very patient manner. “Come on,” he hums, coos, “you’re not _that_ dumb. C’mon, you can do it.”

Dean’s skin feels too tight. He feels like crying. “... Why are you doing this?”

“Because you’re _making_ me,” Sam hisses.

Dean closes his eyes.

Deep breath in.

“... I’m your submissive.”

“Louder.”

“Sam!” Feels like a punch to Dean’s stomach, makes him look for those eyes that meet him but bare no sympathy for his consternation. “No! Someone- s-someone might hear!”

“I said ‘louder’, not ‘shout’. Now say. It. Again.”

Trembling, now sweating, throat tight, Dean repeats as minimally louder as he can manage, “I’m your submissive.”

“Which makes me...?”

“My master.”

“Say ‘you’re my master, sir’.”

“You’re my master, sir.”

Sam is standing right next to Dean now, both body and face so close that Dean can feel the lack of every movement, can feel the control in every single one of Sam’s muscles as he speaks so very quietly, has his eyelids lidded halfway, his expression lax.

A complete paradox.

“If I’m your master, how come you’re not acting like it, huh? Stand fucking _straight_. Arms behind your back.” Dean gasps in surprise as his arms are suddenly grabbed and pulled, arranged. His own hand is being wrapped around his other wrist, locking his arms, pulling his shoulders straight. “That’s position number one. Remember it. And now, what I’d like to hear is what made you ignore my calls yesterday.”

Dean chokes, “I was busy.”

“With what?”

“I was at... I was at the gym, and...”

“Ah, right. Thank you for reminding me.”

Dean swallows, blinks.

“You’re going to use my plan from now on. Are we clear?”

“I have my own one already.”

“I know, pet, I know.” Easy as ever, soft and loveable, Sam invades Dean’s space again, brings his mouth to the level of Dean’s ear and mutters the words all low, all warm. His hands are curled over Dean’s shoulders with barely a hint of pressure. “But that’s over with now, okay? We have to keep you healthy, and we’ll have a lot of problems if you don’t put on some more weight, alright? I don’t want problems. Do you want problems?”

“No.”

“No who?”

“No, sir. But-“

Lips brush over Dean’s pulse spot. The sudden sensation mutes him instantly.

“Go ahead,” Sam prompts. “What is it?”

“I’m... I _am_ healthy.”

“Mh, I see.” A soft kiss behind Dean’s ear. “What did my healthy pet eat yesterday then?”

Hesitation. “Cereals, an’, sandwich and salad for lunch, and... Steak. I went out for steak for dinner.”

Sam, without any hesitation, states, “I think you’re lying.”

Swallowing. “I’m not.”

“Even if you’re not lying – which you’re not, because you are indeed lying this very second – I couldn’t care less. And do you know why?”

The hands are still there. Dean tries not to concentrate so much on the sensation of sweat building up in his armpits. “No, sir.”

“Because you signed a written permission to have me overseeing not only your exercises but also your diet. Did you ask me what you should be eating yesterday?”

“... No, sir.”

“Did I allow you to eat that steak you had?”

“No, sir.”

“Then why did you eat it, pet?”

“Because I...” Dean’s mind is blank. There seems to be no air for him to breathe. “I simply ate it. I was in the mood for it.”

“’In the mood’,” Sam mirrors.

“It’s... It’s just _food_ , Sam.” This is all kinds of wrong. Dean shouldn’t have to justify what he fucking had for dinner. “I don’t know what you wanna hear from me here, seriously.”

“The truth would be nice for a change.”

“I just _told_ you the truth!”

“Okay.” The mouth withdraws but the pacing Sam now starts around the room is even more maddening. Dean stands very still, stays in position, stares at the ground, at nothing. “Okay, you know what? You win. You say you’re not lying – okay, fine, but tell you what: it doesn’t fucking matter, alright? It doesn’t change a THING.”

Dean forces his breathing calm at the raise of Sam’s voice. The terror of being discovered by their coworkers is more than equal to the terror of whatever Sam is about to do.

He hears Sam stopping, maybe pondering, then walking towards Dean, grabbing him by his arms and pushing him forward towards his desk. “It doesn’t change a thing,” Sam keeps muttering. “I got your word black on white and we’ll go through with it. You agreed. It’s only for your own good. If you’d only let me take care of you...!”

Dean whimpers, “Please don’t,” but has his thighs forced up against the edge of the desk already, Sam pulling on his arms.

This is wrong, he thinks.

Nothing happens. Dean expects to be bent over, expects to feel the need to remind Sam that they’re gonna be heard, that everything will go to hell, that he can’t do this. They just stand there though, Sam one solid, slightly heaving wall behind Dean, Dean a taut line pulled up against Sam that can do nothing but breathe, stare into nothing. An animal about to be slaughtered – but nothing comes.

Should he be... grateful for that?

Sam’s forehead is pressed against the back of Dean’s head, his breath a flat weight against Dean’s neck where his white shirt collar isn’t.

“You know what I’d like to do right now?”

“There’s a faint idea, yeah,” Dean croaks.

A dry snort from behind.

“You won’t do it here.” Should be a question but Dean doesn’t want it to be one.

A short hesitation and then, “No, I won’t.”

Relief washes through Dean at that but Sam’s hands are still digging into his arms, his forehead still into the back of his head.

“But you will come to my place tonight. Seven PM.”

Without any space to argue, Dean brings up a lopsided smile where Sam can’t see it. “Naturally.”

“Exactly.”

Dean is released. He doesn’t feel like waiting for Sam’s permission to get his arms back in front of his body and glares warningly when Sam circles the desk and eyes Dean rubbing his own wrists. There is no verbal warning, no true physical one either. Sam flops down into his chair, keeps his eyes on Dean who refuses to give up, too.

This is fucked up. All of it.

“Sam,” Dean starts.

Sam just keeps up the eye contact. He almost looks demurely like that with his chin tipped up slightly with his eye level below Dean’s, open and then again so completely sealed.

Sam could be experiencing every given emotion, right now, right here, and Dean wouldn’t be able to tell.

“... Where the hell is this here heading?”

Sam doesn’t blink and picks up his headset. “That’s completely up to you.”

~ 

The door is pulled closed and locked behind Dean. “Too early is not any better than too late,” Sam warns while Dean hangs away his coat, stabilizes himself on the wall in order to take off his shoes.

“Yeah, well, y’know, couldn’t _wait_ for my whipping.”

Silence behind him. Then, “… Is this funny to you?”

“Not really,” Dean murmurs as he tosses his shoes aside. He is pretty beat since he worked some extra hours today but knows it won’t buy him anything, so he heads to the living room while loosening his tie. “Hey. Remember when we used to, you know, _laugh_? Have fun? Man. Wild times.”

It’s not a surprise to find some equipment ready on the coffee table. Dean just wants to get over with this. He has no intention of spending the night anywhere but his very own bed. Sam doesn’t have to know that just yet but then again Dean couldn’t be bothered.

Sam followed only hesitantly and now seems rather lost in the doorframe. A hint of a frown is tugging on his forehead. Dean gives him a stoic expression as he starts unbuttoning his own shirt.

“Is this a joke to you?”

Dean feels like answering a lot of things right now, could list it all from A to Z. He’s not insane though, even though he sometimes and especially these past few days pretty often thinks he might be. Done with all buttons, Dean’s hands drop uselessly to his sides. He has nothing to offer but a shrug. “Does it matter? You’re gonna do whatever you’re gonna do if I approve of it or not, _sir_.”

Sam doesn’t move. “You’re not wrong,” he admits. “But that is not the point.”

Dean sighs. He turns towards the table – a lot of leather there, mainly what seem to be belts. So Dean’s going to be tied up again tonight. Great.

The blindfold lies there, innocent as always. When Dean reaches out to grab it, Sam’s, “ _Don’t_ ,” makes him startle, then pull back his hand.

Dean leans against the couch, eyes still on the gear laid out, waiting. For him.

He can hear Sam moving, can see him appearing in the corner of his vision. A hand puts itself on Dean’s arm and starts to gently rub it.

Sam explains, “Nobody but me handles the hardware.” A tug on Dean’s sleeve. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. You didn’t know.”

The hand finds Dean’s cheek. Dean neither reacts nor turns to look at Sam.

After a while of running his thumb along Dean’s cheek, Sam asks very quietly, “Why are you making this so hard for yourself, pet?”

“I seriously have no clue what you expect me to answer. Sir.”

The hand slides behind Dean’s ear, into his hair. “You pronounce that like it’s a curse word.”

“How am I supposed to pronounce it then, _sir_?” Dean spits the word just like before. Sam’s fingers slide through his hair as Dean turns his head to now look at him. “Should I _moan_ it for you, maybe?”

Sam says, “That would be a start, I guess,” and his voice, just like his expression, is completely blank.

Dean’s jaw clenches and he exhales through his nose, hard, his eyes fluttering shut just in time with Sam’s fingers starting to pet his hair, gently scratching down to his scalp. The petting, in combination with his own tension, his nervousness, is more irritating than brutality, and Dean feels the ache to withdraw from it, from all of it, from Sam, this place.

“Apropos ‘start’,” Sam murmurs. “You know you’re here for punishment, right?”

Dean nods, eyes still closed just like his mouth, afraid to tip Sam over whatever edge the guy has left.

“You knew and yet you came. You always do that. Last time, too.”

The shirt is shoved down from Dean’s shoulders and slides to the ground by itself.

“You know me by now, pet. You know what I like. What I want you to do. What I want to do _to_ you. And yet... you... are... here.” Sam gently taps his forefinger down Dean’s chest with every of the last few words. “What you said earlier, about being a ‘slave’... That’s not you, Dean.” Both hand and words trail over Dean’s body. Sam leans in closer to whisper into his ear. “You see, a slave would have to be forced. You? You’re here because you _chose_ to be.”

Dean says nothing. Has nothing to say, anyway.

He lets Sam arrange him to his likings – pants off, socks and underwear too, slumping down on the couch, lying down more or less flat on his back. He keeps his eyes on Sam’s until the man looks away to get to the bondage and then keeps watching Sam’s expression while he ties him up. Without a doubt, Sam is elegant. His hands move smoothly, practiced, so used to Dean’s body already. Dean doesn’t protest when Sam hikes his left leg up to tie it calf to thigh, just watches propped up on his elbows.

“Humans are easy, Dean. Give them something they crave and suddenly all morality, all civilization? Gone.”

The other leg is treated the same. Dean doesn’t feel like talking and Sam seems to become more and more absorbed by his task, so there is no sound but the whispering of leather, the groan of it as it is pulled tight. A bar not much different from a barbell is fitted across his shoulders. There are cuffs on either side and Dean’s wrists are secured to it, naturally. A snap hook for each side connects the leg bindings to the bar.

Dean keeps breathing through his nose but can’t deny how his pulse is picking up, how the pull on his extremities gets to him in its foreignness. He keeps his eyes on his own body, down between his legs where he’s still caged, limp, useless.

In the corner of his eyes, Sam is standing tall. There is movement, a faint sliver of something on skin. Not Dean’s skin. Not yet.

A sharp smack makes Dean startle, then press his eyes shut. The bar allows no movement at all. Dean curls his fingers into his palms. Feels damp.

“Nothing more than moths... swarming towards a bright light.”

A tired smirk pulls on only one side of Dean’s otherwise numb mouth. Yeah. Sam is pretty much gone. “Bit of a god complex goin’ on right there, sir?”

As if he was genuinely surprised – maybe Dean wasn’t supposed to say anything – Sam’s eyes blink wide for a second. Clear enough to draw Dean’s attention to his face, to give him the hint of the satisfaction of having taken Sam by surprise.

Then, Dean spots the flogger in Sam’s hands.

“What makes you think _you_ are the moth?”

No warmup, no warning, and the first hit burns like acid must burn, dozens of cigarette-cherries setting his skin on fire, and Dean hasn’t quite settled into the pain when the second strikes already. The intensity takes him by surprise, makes him yelp, loud. His muscles jump in their confinements with nowhere to go.

“I don’t know if I told you...”

The third hits right on top of the first.

“... but this entire building is extraordinarily sound proof. So be as loud as you want.”

The next, now across Dean’s stomach instead of the back of his thigh, stops Dean mid-inhale.

“Nobody’s gonna come a’knocking.”

Dean loses track of numbers, of pace. He has started sobbing a long time ago and now is not exactly too aware of that any more. There’s a constant burn that makes him see red, _think_ red, and what he notices first when the air starts quieting down is that he’s so tense his entire body is trembling in exhaustion.

Enough time for an honest wail before fingers shove into his mouth, the sound of Sam’s heavy breath, clothes rustling, the couch dipping in front of Dean.

“Hank hu, hir.”

“Exactly,” wheezes Sam.

The fingers sink in to the knuckles, scissor to maybe keep Dean from biting down since that’s exactly what his body decides to do when Sam’s cock is forcing his ass open – at least not dry, but the intrusion is completely unsuspected, completely unprepared for, and Dean gags for both the pressure against his tonsils and the immense stretch of his insides. It’s a slow, steady push, Sam so heavy and powerful that it’s no question if it’s gonna fit, if it’s gonna work for Dean or not, and Dean starts to gasp for air around those fingers, around Sam’s hand. His body makes useless efforts to somehow move backwards into the couch, away, but if he got anywhere then Sam is right there until he’s rooted completely, every inch of him making itself aware, pulsing dangerously.

What confuses the small part of Dean that is still conscious enough is that when Sam pulls back, pushes back in – there is no pain. Where is it?

Back of thighs, lower belly – Sam digs the nails of his free hand into the welts and Dean howls.

“Pain and pleasure.” Sam corkscrews his fingers across Dean’s tongue while he speaks. “So very alike, aren’t they?”

Dean only notices that Sam has started fucking him when the pain on his skin fades into something less blinding. The thrusts are hard enough to make his head bob on his neck, air and backrest, air and backrest. He feels himself moaning, drools around Sam’s fingers but is unable to swallow, thinks that maybe he’s gnawing on Sam’s fingers but he isn’t stopped. Doesn’t matter what he does, if he does anything or not.

Dean’s jaw feels loose. Just like his arms, his legs. Everything.

“This is how it can _be_ , Dean; this, so easy, and I can _give_ it to you, I _will_ give it to you, ‘cause it’s what you need and it’s what you want, can’t you see how beautiful it is, how much you need it? God, _fuck_.”

Both fingers and cock pull from Dean simultaneously, leaving him gasping and gaping, horribly empty and whining for the loss.

Sam slips in two of his fingers of both hands and pulls Dean’s ass open. That’s clearly what is happening; Dean can almost _see_ it, feels the humiliation and fascination of being exposed like this bolting through him with a wet shudder down his chest, into his bound legs, making them quiver, makes his chin tremble with the force behind it.

“You’re letting me right in, no resistance at all,” groans Sam. “Pain, followed by relaxation. It’s easy. It’s a natural order.” A strangled sound blurts from Dean’s still lonely mouth when fingers withdraw and are replaced by Sam’s cock again immediately.

Hands fold around Dean’s throat.

“You were _made_ for this.”

Sam fucks him while he holds him steady by his neck. There’s still room left to breathe but not enough by a long shot. Where Dean had been disorientated before, he is completely lost now. There’s panic, too – what if Sam decides to press down even harder, take _all_ air from him? Dean couldn’t ask him to stop, wouldn’t be able to make a sound, can barely hear himself by now with how loud his blood is pulsing in his ears.

Sam is pounding him still, relentless, and Dean’s wrists hurt from the cuffs and his calves cramp from the bondage. The pressure on his windpipe lifts eventually and Dean hauls for air immediately. The blindfold is ripped off his face, Sam still going, now clearly in front of Dean’s eyes, blurry through tears and overstimulation but definitely there, Dean can _see_ him.

As much as he looks ready to kill a man, Sam looks just as hurt, just as teary-eyed.

The hands that were choking Dean mere seconds ago now cup his face, almost crush it in between them, and Sam keeps their staring up as his lashes flutter, blink, and Dean can feel him coming as deep inside as he will go, pressed so close Dean is shoved in half, feels the welts on his belly being crushed and burn.

A sound like a wounded animal, and then Sam is kissing him teeth-first.

Sam rocks his body against Dean’s, a shallow, soft thing, and Dean smothers his face into Sam’s palms and against what he can reach of his face. The contact is breaking him down, strips him barer than any of the fucked-up fetish things could. Seems unbearable when Sam withdraws after what feels like forever and yet never enough. In desperation, hysteric need, Dean’s mouth starts moving.

“Please, thank you, sir, please, please, thank you, I, I, _please_...!”

For that, he gets Sam back.

There’s close clicking of metal on metal and Dean groans when his first wrist slips free. His entire arm drops without the support, and Sam immediately goes for his hand to rub it in between both of his own.

Dean lets his head loll to the side and screws up his face. “Ffffuck...”

“Shhh, you’ll be alright.”

“Yeah,” Dean grits, weakly nods his head. He sniffs, wetly. “Yeah. I know. I know.” And he _does_ know.

All ties are removed bit by bit, slowly and cautiously not to move anything too quickly. Dean is huffing himself and even Sam sounds exhausted by it.

“Sorry... I’m so heavy...”

“It’s fine,” Sam probably lies. “Don’t worry about it. Let me take care of you.”

Hands guide Dean’s limbs back into what could be called ‘remote mobility’. Every movement of his legs though pull on the assaulted skin on the back of his thighs, and when (to cap it all) his ass starts to leak like crazy, Dean probably complains and struggles enough for Sam to heave him down onto the carpet to let him sprawl there.

With his button-down stuffed under his ass (“I’ll get you a new one.”), Dean listens to Sam picking up the gear, how he quietly moves around the room. Always so quiet. As if nobody is allowed to hear him, to know where exactly he is at any given moment. But Dean recognizes most of those little noises by now.

They know each other for almost a year. Wow.

“Lemme jus’ crash right here,” mutters Dean when he hears Sam kneeling down next to him. Instead of picking or helping him up though, Sam lies down as well. If Dean had any strength or will left, he would pet the head that settles down on top of his chest.

After a while of peaceful silence filled with nothing but Dean blinking up against the bright light of the ceiling lamp, Sam asks, “Are you sorry for your disobedience?”

Dean, tired and worn out Dean, blinks. “I guess. Yeah.”

“Say ‘I’m sorry, Sam’.”

So very easy to just... “I’m sorry, Sam.”

“Will you do what I asked of you? The workouts? The diet?”

Dean’s mouth opens and closes without any result.

Sam sighs. His breath is warm on Dean’s skin.

“You’re...” Dean is searching for the right words. “You’re just expecting so _much_ , Sam.”

No reply.

Dean frowns against the ceiling. “... This is hard for me. If you’ve done this before, you must know it’s hard.” (Fucking _impossible_ , even.) “You can’t just... turn me into someone else.”

“Says the het guy who spread his legs for me all weekend.”

Now it’s Dean’s turn to sigh. He clicks his tongue, sighs again. Turns his head to the side, away from Sam. “... You know what I mean.”

“Of course I do.”

Dean snorts.

“Hey, watch it.” Sam growls that but gives nothing more than a harmless, wet kiss to Dean’s chest, then rolls back into his former position. “Seriously though. No more lying, okay? I won’t hold it against you when you’re honestly telling me that something went wrong, but just... No more lies. Can we do that? Please?”

When Dean risks a glimpse down his body, there are Sam’s eyes, slightly squinted, his massive forehead in worried wrinkles. Unfair. “Did you just say ‘please’ to me, Wesson?”

“... Don’t get used to it,“ frowns Sam.

“Too late,” chuckles Dean – and regrets it immediately. Unable to stop the laughter though, he winces through the pain, brings his hand to his sternum but doesn’t dare to push it lower where his skin seems to be peeling off. Even here, he can feel the heat of what must be inflamed skin. “Shit,” he wheezes, tossing his head, still chuckling. “That one’s gonna stick around for a while, won’t it.”

“Just like a lesson should,” hums Sam.

Ignoring the obvious satisfaction in Sam’s voice, Dean wipes his nose with the back of his hand. The following yawn expands his torso into very uncomfortable levels of pain.

Well, shit. So much for not staying the night.

~ 

The diet plan looks more or less okay until page three. Dean’s stomach is already bursting with two sunny side ups and a slice of toast. For Dean who usually doesn’t eat until after two PM, a snack before lunch sounds lunatic. But he said he’d try. Promised it, kinda. Then again, it’s not easy talking back with a good ten percent of your body pulsing more than raw under your clothes.

There’s a cup of yogurt with a post-it saying “Smith” on it in the office fridge. Only six ounces – and that’s a big relief right until the first spoonful. Sam had removed the labels and now Dean knows damn well why. It’s a full-fat product.

Dean feels like emptying the whole thing into the sink. Or all over Sam’s stupid contract, the diet plan, the workout plan. Would serve him right. Full-fat for full-insanity. Fuck that guy.

Dean ends up with all six ounces in his belly, now more than slightly nauseated. He has to go to the toilet, twice, because his bowels think that no, Smith, you are right, this is bullshit. There is burping, stomach growling, and all of it is entirely horrible and on top of the pinch of his skin whenever he moves, takes a breath, sits down.

It's Sam who takes him out for lunch, who orders for him. A Caesar salad and even though Dean could talk himself out of the croutons, he’s struggling with the fourth forkful already.

The dressing seems to multiply whenever he blinks. Like his plate is overflowing with it, just like the cheese, the ham, the roasted chicken...

The fork clatters on his plate, and Dean is already on his feet and manages to mumble, “I can’t fucking do this,” before bolting to the restrooms without looking back. He locks himself into a stall, feels the goddamn yogurt rising and hates, shakes, presses his back up against the door and waits for angry stomps following him. Nothing comes though, nobody. He’s all alone.

His knees barely hit the tiles before he’s already retching over the toilet.

Sam says nothing when Dean comes back to their table. He has finished his lunch already, just sits there, arms crossed in front of his chest. “What?” hisses Dean, so obvious in what just happened but unable to accept it, to acknowledge it. He picks up his fork with an unnerved sigh, glares daggers right back at Sam. “Here. I’m doing it, okay? Happy?”

Sam keeps watching Dean without saying another word, until Dean’s plate is empty enough. They end up returning twenty minutes late.

For the first time since he got the initial ‘welcome tour’, Dean has to ask one of the trainers to talk him through his exercises. It’s humiliating at best, but at least it’s not Sam who’s pushing him to _take more, yeah, you can do it_. Dean is shaking and sore as hell at the end of the session, pouring with sweat and feeling too weak to make another step. He somehow manages to shower, dress, get downstairs and outside, then into a taxi and up into his flat. Door – bedroom – bed.

His phone, always dutifully tucked into the back pocket of his sweats, starts vibrating.

Secret to the rest of the world, Dean groans.

No need to check who is calling him. “What is it?” Dean slurs.

“And?” Sam sounds so smug Dean would like nothing better than to decorate that damn face with his fist. “Not so bad, right?”

“If I’m not dead by tomorrow, I’m gonna _kill_ you.”

“How dramatic.”

“Bite me.”

“Yeah, bet you’d like that.”

“Ugh.” Dean lets his face drop into the sheets. “Don’t phone-sex me. Just let me die.”

On the other end of the line, Sam is laughing. “You’re not gonna die, Dean. You’re gonna feel amazing in a few days, promise.”

“’Days’? Oh, fuck you.”

“Since you’re so _healthy_ , it’s gonna be no problem at all.”

Dean makes a face at the sarcasm. Not what he wants. Not that he wanted that at any point, but especially not now. Not today. Again, he groans, sighs, moans, whatever.

It gets him a soothing sound from his phone, from halfway across the city. Then, not too long for Dean to pass out but with a small delay nevertheless, “Don’t you want to tell me something?”

Dean grunts.

“In the restaurant,” Sam presses. Dean can imagine him sitting in his loft right now, maybe at the kitchen table, doing some home office business he brought home today. Maybe wearing his glasses. Maybe tapping on the papers with his pen. His voice is sterner now, less easy, and it makes something in Dean curl. “Let’s hear it, come on. I promise I won’t get mad. Just tell me what happened.”

Dean waits another few seconds for that ‘please’ he really shouldn’t have grown accustomed to. He then ruffles his hair, winces as he rearranges his battered body on the bed. “Okay, uh...” He rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand, hard. “So. I kinda. Threw up.”

“Shocker,” Sam snaps drily. “Did you do it on purpose?”

“Wha- God, _no_! It practically came shooting outta me, man; I’d _never_!” Dean runs his hand across his entire face, just to keep it across his already shut eyes. Dog-tired. That’s the word, right? “Urgh. I just wanna sleep. Without dreaming about, urgh, fuck, fuckin’- dairy products, an’... _Urgh_.”

Dean rolls over despite the pain it causes him. The people in the flat below are having a small party of some sort. The announcement had been pinned on the blackboard for days but Dean just today had had the chance to read it. Not that it matters, though. He’s pretty positive he will be out like a light in less than five seconds after ending the phone call.

“Okay.” Sam sounds contended. Believing. “Did you have the protein bar and the shake?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“Can I go home now, please?”

A sweet chuckle against Dean’s ear. “Yeah. You’re doing great, baby. I’m proud of you.”

Dean’s yawn melts into a, “Yeah, you too.”

“Okay. Good night. See you tomorrow.”

“Jup. Bye.”

It’s a miracle that Dean’s coordination allows his thumb to find the ‘disconnect’ on his screen, but hey, he’s not going to complain.

 _You’re gonna be fine. It’s all gonna be fine._ Instead of counting sheep, it’s Dean’s favorite mantra playing in his last moments of consciousness.

If you survived this May’s Tokyo negotiations, this here is gonna be less than peanuts in comparison, Smith.

You’re gonna be fine.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags have been updated. Please stay safe.

Dean spends the majority of Wednesday’s game’s broadcast kneeling since he “forgot“ to have his yogurt that day (aka Sam caught him red-handed trying to smuggle it into the restroom to get rid of it). It would be less bad if Dean wasn’t so sore from “his” new workout regimen, would be a hell of a lot less bad if Sam wouldn’t pinch him in the very same spot on his shoulder every time Dean loses the tension Sam expects him to hold up. He’d curse, but Sam told him not to make a sound.

He has his wrists cuffed to that bar across his shoulders again, is stark naked but sweating. His muscles are increasingly shaking but he won’t give Sam the satisfaction of showing any more weakness than absolutely necessary. Which is not much; Sam should know by now that Dean is not easy to break. Dean stares ahead at the screen and waits.

“Stand up,” is so much easier said than done, especially with Dean’s knees getting more and more shitty every goddamn day even without kneeling for prolonged periods of time. Dean groans in both pain and exhaustion and immediately bites his tongue for it – too late though, and he tenses before Sam’s hand cuts through the air behind him. Precision landing; not that Dean expected any different.

Sam manages to maneuver them to the door frame, shoves Dean face-first into the wall and follows right up to press himself along Dean’s back. Dean’s neck is mouthed at where it’s bare, where the bar isn’t weighing down on it with the heft of his arms, and Dean isn’t sure if he’s allowed to but Sam doesn’t scold him for bracing his hands on the wall as well for slightly more support. Dean waits but doesn’t have to wait long, starts to breathe through his mouth now that Sam is fingering his ass with a generous amount of lube, certainly less generous patience. So there’s two, three soon, and when they withdraw Dean braces himself but it’s not flesh that presses up into him next.

Dean blinks at the wall, tries to put his finger on how this makes him feel compared to being penetrated by Sam. He remembers the plug he had used in his desperation some time ago but what Sam is using now is different – thicker, heavier. It also doesn’t seem to be as anonymously shaped. Slightly bent, flared tip. Yeah. No joke.

The buzzing out of nowhere sucker punches Dean’s concentration good, lets him gasp for air but apparently not loud enough, or maybe Sam just didn’t hear him over the sounds of the toy. So Dean gives another, more liberal noise, something like another groan but more breathless, more surprised. Almost feels like a question in his mouth; a dare.

The following strike to his ass makes him clamp down on the toy, drives goosebumps up his spine.

Dean’s eyes are closed, forehead smashed up against the wall. A familiar warmth drums through his genitals, even if slightly obscured. Maybe the vibrator is pressing right up against his prostate. Maybe Dean’s still caged dick is leaking again.

Sam fucks him with the toy until he’s losing his patience, turns it off prior to pulling it out carefully, and Dean squirms in frustration. That just earns him another twin pair of hits which are purely boring now without anything up his ass. Sam fixes that though. One long push and Dean is up on his toes, all breath forced out of him, and that’s pretty much how he remains. This sort of thing shouldn’t even be possible while standing straight, but Dean’s out of luck big time recently, so fuck that.

It’s bareback, again, and Dean has to kneel afterwards, again. The second half is on and they missed a few minutes; Dean still pink-cheeked and stupidly aroused, somehow, restless. He is clenching his ass in order not to leak all over his own feet, onto the carpet, and that’s quite the challenge after getting railed the way Sam seems to always go at it. Okay, that’s not a hundred percent true though. Sam _can_ be gentle – he just mostly doesn’t choose to be.

Behind his back, Dean hears Sam uncapping a beer for himself. Dean is thirsty as well, but not stupid enough to ask. He’ll wait.

Can’t be much longer now. 

~ 

In what is only roughly one week, Dean gains three point two pounds.

Maybe Sam should have thought of rules for the usage of scales too, maybe that would have been one bright idea, but then again maybe “brightness” is not what Sam’s intentions are all about.

It’s obvious what Dean would do if he had a choice: stop _stuffing_ himself, for one. Stop standing there like a fool, gaping like a fish on dry land, and getting the hell back into the workout section, run for like another hour, then go for a swim, then sauna, then – a few days of water fast. Would be easy. The possibility... no, the _urge_ burns under Dean’s nails, in his already lactate-filled muscles, behind his eyes, in his gums.

But he can’t do it. Any of it. Sam wouldn’t let him go through with it, not long enough for Dean’s actions to be effective. It would be too obvious.

So Dean needs something less obvious.

The thought is in his panic-ridden head for a good few seconds before he has his solution, right there, filed away, waiting to be rediscovered in times of need. Like right now.

He hasn’t used them in forever; didn’t _have_ to. Now that he thinks about it, the last time probably was during that week-long vacation with Lisa and her parents and Ben. Ben’s grandparents hadn’t seen their only grandchild for so long that they seemed to want to make up for lost time by inviting all of them to every kind of restaurant they could find. Preferably fast food. Dean hadn’t been able to avoid eating with the extended-version-Braedens and somehow (scarily) didn’t really _want_ to avoid it either, so...

Well.

So, Dean has those pills, you see. Calls them his “magic beans” when he’s feeling especially comedic (not so often), cause, damn, they work pure magic for his digestion. Aka completely annihilate it. Okay, sure, greasy stool is neither fun to have nor to, well, _anything_ , but it kept Dean from a nervous breakdown during that vacation. Kept him from worse things after college, in that intense phase where he started to take care of himself and lost a good twenty pounds. He can see that now but is realistic: nobody could have stopped him from what he did, how he did it. Dean had read reviews about other products, other ingredients; read about kidney failures, necrotic intestines, cancer. The Dean Smith back then was _lucky_.

So, here in front of his mirror cabinet – maybe he’ll look back at today, at this, and think the same? It had worked before, had been good.

Still, this isn’t easy.

Dean is staring at his reflection, and it stares right back with its face seemingly empty, at least for people who don’t know him very well (basically everyone who isn’t his family, Lisa, Ben, or Sam). Dean Smith is full though, bursting. His fingers are curled tight around the sink’s edge, bracing all his weight, shoulders drawn tight.

This feels like a step back.

You’re better than this, Smith.

Since when the fuck do you let anyone push you this far?

“Fuck this,” huffs Dean before he finally opens the cabinet.

It’s fucked up, stupid, and he hates the ways he is letting himself getting bent, how pathetic he is. He wants this to work though. This – Sam and him. He really, really wants this to work.

Everything has changed since Sam.

They’re hidden but not too deep, not unavailable. Dean knew he’d have to be able to get to them quick when he would feel the need to take them again, that it’d be an emergency case, that he would be needing the availability, the comfort of their magic only a hand’s width behind his...

 

They’re not there.

 

Dean Smith freezes together with the entire world – screeching halt, no sense of time.

Slowly revving thoughts drop back into Dean’s consciousness, little by little, accumulating, filling. Could he have put them somewhere else? Negative; why would he do that? Soft fear – could he be losing his mind? But who else if not himself would have been able to get to them? There’s no maid, nobody has been over except for...

Another halt but this time knee-breaking, stomach-dropping.

No. Impossible. Sam didn’t know. Sam couldn’t have known, wouldn’t have...

A few shoves is all it takes to send every package and every bottle to the floor, into the sink, and Dean definitely _feels_ like a madman, frantic and sweating and his heart pounding low in his guts and his teeth hurt from clenching and

_they’re nowhere to be found, goddammit._

Smith catches his breath, hands on the sink again, and there’s nauseating anger he denies and pain as well, deep and scorching and why, why, _why?_

Dean’s feet kick at the boxes they can find and when that isn’t enough, he at least has the mental presence to wrap a towel around his fist before he smashes it into the wall, repeatedly.

But it still isn’t enough. This is not what he needs.

_So I heard you’re better than this?_

Maybe not.

His hand throbs like crazy but miles away from broken, the pain a nice distraction from the hissing in the back of his head, and Dean is shaking so hard his phone has to be held in both hands, back to the wall, jaws churning, pulse ticking like a bomb.

Sam picks up on the fourth ringing but before he can manage a sound, Dean is already snarling into the receiver.

“You sonofabitch! Where _are_ they?!”

The following pause passes by second by second, endlessly in Dean’s head, too long. Instead of asking what the hell is going on, instead of scolding Dean for his choice of words, his tone, there is nothing but this pause coming from Sam until he starts his reply with a sour, snorted laugh. “Took you long enough. But I guess should be relieved that you weren’t using them earlier.”

“When the fuck did you- Jesus fuckin’- You, you took them, why would you- Fuck, SAM!”

“Wow. This really gets to you.”

“I’m coming over, NOW.”

“You think this is a good idea? Really?”

“Shut up or I swear to god, Sam...!”

“Or what?”

Dean stops – in the corridor. It’s slowly sinking in that he is already halfway out the door, about to confront Sam, and suddenly everything this will _mean_ slams into him.

“What are you going to do, I wonder?” Sam is drawling the words, all slow honey to smear around Dean’s mouth, to make him fat and sick. It has Dean trembling with new anger. “Go on. Humor me.”

Smith decides, “I’ll be there in ten.”

A huff that sounds sickly disappointed. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

The line disconnects. 

~ 

Street lights give illumination where the sun gave up already. Dean Smith stares at his knees, has his hands folded on top of them to prevent from doing something that would unnerve the driver. He’s chewing gum because that gives him an excuse to keep churning his teeth without doing much damage. His hand is still throbbing, slightly swollen, but that’s okay. He lets his knuckles crack idly, refuses to look out of the window, anywhere.

Dean is sweating in his wool coat even though it’s a pretty blustery autumn this year, feels like burning up even before rushing up the damn stairs. His chest is heaving but the coat stays on. He’s too distracted by his fury to think of anything else than Sam’s betrayal and how deep it cuts. So much deeper than he wanted anyone to go, ever again, and yet he’s here and it’s so annoying to be this goddamn stupid.

 _I told you_ , something whispers, and Dean raps his knuckles against the door hard enough to make the almost healed skin split anew.

The door is not wholly open and Sam’s voice is already there. “Dean, calm down,” like he’s talking to a horse, a wild animal, and if that doesn’t make Dean even more furious then Dean doesn’t know anymore. He storms right in, hands in fists and ready, head dizzy and breath rattling and Sam repeats, again, “I need you to _calm down_ ,” as if that wouldn’t rev Dean up to the very opposite of that.

“Do you have ANY idea how SICK-“

And the door is banging closed and Sam’s body is crushing into Dean’s, taking them both down but Dean first, crushed between hardwood and predatory animal. Dean’s eyes almost pop out of his skull because _why hadn’t he seen this coming?_

“GET OFF! _SAM_!” His body arches in honest efforts (this is not a game and maybe it never was) to shake Sam off but Sam is two hundred pounds of force and his knees are pressing nail-gun-powerful into the back of Dean’s knees, hands horribly effortlessly getting a grip on Dean’s arms, wrists, twist him until Dean’s angry roar fleets into pain. “SAM, WHAT THE FU-“

Dean’s head lifts, roots of hair pulling his entire face tight where Sam’s fist is using them despite the rather fresh hair cut length, and then it is slammed down into the floor just as quick.

Then, again; a quick thing, one-two, drumstick, Zeppelin, play that song again.

What’s first – shock or pain – is impossible to identify, but they take less than a second to steal Dean’s breath, make him gasp all throat and no spit at all, lights dancing over the pinprick areas that are his irises.

Sam’s hand is still in his hair, pressing him down temple-first. The throbbing worsens by the second. “I said: Calm. Down.” Sam whispers this, voice strained but not as much as it should be with Dean fighting as hard as he is. This here is no match for Sam. Not even much of an effort.

Some primal part of Smith’s brain throws in the towel, and with it goes all hope to break free. ‘Eat or be eaten’ is not a question anymore, here, now.

Heat shoots into Dean’s eyes, palpable even over the agony that is his bruising skull. He feels himself mouthing, “Please.”

“Your attitude, pet, is tedious.”

“This isn’t funny anymore.” Dean’s guts twist. “Sam, please. Let me go.”

In response, Sam twists his arms tighter behind his back until Dean’s shoulders are screaming and then some. Dean’s protest is weak, breathless.

“We are going to get up now. One wrong move and I’ll pop your shoulder.”

Dean says nothing. He stares ahead, beyond those lights.

“Are we clear, pet?”

Dean croaks, “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Sam gets them to their feet and with the man’s weight lifting off of Dean come the sensations. Every new draught of air seems to bring more tightness than it brings relief, makes Dean aware of the areas that took the most damage from the tackle. His head is spinning from the impact, his shoulder still straining, and Dean is swaying with something silent on his lips, unable to do a single thing about his misery.

While Sam rids Dean of his coat, Dean tries to remember if he saw Sam locking the front door. “Stand against the wall. Don’t move until I tell you to.”

Dean is left by himself, forehead against wall, for Sam to unlock the room Dean still hasn’t seen, and slips inside without a sound.

He didn’t, Dean thinks.

_You could run._

He can’t. Frozen, shocked, whatever it is; Smith’s legs will not move. He keeps staring through golden thistles, and they do not care much about it.

The blindfold settles in, but this one is different: no longer satin but leather. It has a buckle which Sam fastens at the back of Dean’s head without much gentleness. The pads over his eyes are accommodating the shape of his face perfectly. Airtight, unyielding, it adds to Dean’s uneasiness, to his sweat and pulse. Dean draws his breath faster and thinner and stares at the blackness in front of him.

One of Sam’s hands is enough to keep both of Dean’s wrists pinned. One tug is enough to get Dean’s undivided attention. “Move.”

Dean is led inside, and again, no lock is being handled. The door seems to be slid closed though before Sam walks Dean farther. It’s still a mystery how big this room is – what the floor looks like – what the walls look like. If there is a window.

After taking off his shirt, Sam yanks Dean’s arms up over his head, and a new rush of adrenaline floods Dean at the sound of something metallic, dangling. His wrists are confined before he knows it. Dean’s arms straighten under a harsh pull upwards, and he can feel Sam walking to the side, hears something clinking. He tries to keep up his breathing.

The pulling continues until nothing more than Dean’s toes are touching the ground. He could kick for Sam’s head now that the man is kneeling in front of him to take off his shoes and socks, but what would that get him? As it is, he couldn’t break free without help.

Dean, eyes wide and head throbbing in time with his heart, tries to come to terms with what is happening. Various thoughts rush by, ugly and violent, and he licks some sweat from his lip and curls his fingers into his palms. He sways in his bondage. The air is heavy.

“Dean, Dean, Dean.”

Dean’s head turns in an attempt to locate Sam. He seems to be moving as he talks, and Dean follows the trail that is Sam’s voice.

“Where do I even _begin_ here?” Disappointment. Boredom. Dean can almost see Sam crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I wish I wouldn’t have to do this, but you give me no other choice.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

That, not quite unexpectedly, makes Sam shut up. The words are foreign though, as if it’s not Dean who said them. No, was more of a mumble than really pronouncing it like it needs to be pronounced. Like Dean _wants_ to pronounce it.

Dean’s tongue is heavy. “I don’t get you. I don’t... What...” He shakes his head as much as it will go before hurting too bad (rather early). A sad shrug, whistling breath. Everything is spinning. “I knew you were a freak, but this? Fuck.” More shaking, face twisting, fingers prickling numb. “Fuck, Sam. Fuck.”

Useless silence before Sam’s quiet, “If I were in your position, I would try to choose my words significantly more carefully.”

To his own surprise, Dean hears himself breaking into laughter. (Maybe a concussion? Dean’s head hurts, _bad_.)

A short shock later, Sam nips, “Fine. Okay. You... Fine.” Dean hears the distant whisper of something being picked up as his laughter starts to fade (he’d keep it up but it fucking _hurts_ ). Demon legs working, clothes shifting, screams in his ears. “You want something to regret? Oh, I’m in for that.”

Sam is close. Dean knows. He rocks with the last remnants of his humor, lets his head cock to the side, against his shoulder. Dean’s smirk feels shark-wide on his mouth. “Mmmh, bet it gets you off like a rocket, sweetheart.”

“Not as much as you,” hisses Sam. Dean laughs again in one small outburst, and his head lolls to the other side. His body feels way too heavy but he can’t completely let go or otherwise his wrists will go to shit in no time under the strain. Silk-soft fingertips run along Dean’s jawline. It’s half mockery and half ridiculous when Dean leans into it like a cat. “If I’m a freak, what does that make you, I wonder? Who is dumb enough to come crawling right up the lap of their tormenter? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re _asking_ for it.” Dean is still smirking. Sam surely is, too. That voice goes even quieter in a whispered (almost gentle), “Maybe I should do that. Make you beg for it.”

“Maybe you should untie me so I can wipe that grin right offa your goddamn-“

There’s no air and what feels like a truck ramming up into Dean, right underneath the cavity of his ribs, and his feet lose contact to the ground and he wants to inhale but he can’t, his body won’t listen, muscles won’t seize, cramp and hurt and Dean coughs helplessly.

“Shoulda thought of that earlier, Smith. Somewhere around the moment you stomped up these stairs like a maniac.” Breath hits Dean from behind. Even Sam’s _voice_ seems airy, and Dean still cannot get a full draught of air inside of himself. Sam begins to make short work of Dean’s slacks and underwear; rucks them open, down. Closer, until Dean can smell Sam’s breath, and with the now completed nakedness it’s disgust that makes him shiver. “All bravado... no brains. As always.”

Clenched teeth and, “Let me go.”

“You’re starting to bore me.”

“I’ll-“ What is there, really? What even has the _chance_ to intimidate Sam at this point? “I’ll call the cops if you don’t-”

“And tell them what? Maybe show them the papers you signed? All that dirty, kinky stuff you gave your formal consent to?”

“The contract is bullshit and you _know_ that-“

“Mr. Officer, sir! I had no idea! He said he was fine! He likes this kind of stuff. He introduced me to it!” Sam’s voice is raised now, all bad actor to show Dean how childish this all (Dean’s pain, Dean’s fear, Dean’s dignity) is to him. If it wasn’t freaking Dean out so bad, he would be going mad with anger. “You know how these perverts are – ‘no’ means ‘yes’, and he never tapped out, wanted me to keep going even when I asked if he was really, really sure.” Space between them since Sam is stepping back, circles Dean until he’s in front of him. Again completely unpredictably, Sam’s voice dips low. Could be a caress, could be honest concern, sadness. “This man has serious issues, sir. I’m so sorry he played you. He did the same to me.”

No, this is not a caress. This is a scalpel, flaying Dean bare.

Sam closes in again, slowly. Every word becomes more real as it hits the back of Dean’s neck warmer and warmer until Sam’s lips are right up against the shell of his ear.

“He lies... and he twists... and then he lies some more.”

Dean tells Sam to go fuck himself with as much acid as he can gather.

Sam is, without a doubt, smiling right now. “Oh Smith, we both know you can do so much better than that.”

The sounds are delayed, maybe are nothing more but echoes when they finally reach Dean’s consciousness, but he knows he’s screaming and there was something cutting through the air and then struck him across his lower back; slim and long, and it’s solid, and no bracing in this world makes the next hit any easier.

Dean had never gotten into a fight or accident or anything remotely dangerous before, but suddenly he’s a few months away from age thirty-eight and he knows how it’s like to fear for his life.

This car is skittering, steering wheel let loose and tires screeching, burning, but then Dean Smith decides: not today. Not like this. And with that, he is back in control.

Blinking, hauling for air. Where’s Sam? Behind him, still. Okay. Long, slim, hard – an object. Quick, so it’s light. Light and slim and unyielding.

A cane. Sam is caning him. “That’s my boy.”

Dean yowls with the next strike.

“Sorry yet?”

Another, almost no recovery time, but Dean doesn’t articulate anything. (Wouldn’t, even if he was capable.)

“Diet pills, though? Really?” New strike on new skin; could be a knife slicing into him, wouldn’t be much different, probably. “You wanna die that bad, Dean? ‘S that it? You hate yourself so much you’re poisoning your body when you cannot starve it?”

“They’re... They’re...” _Harmless_ , Dean wants to say, but his mouth won’t work right.

Sam completes with, “Your personal version of _this_ ,” and the cane hits with extra sharpness. “You have problems, Dean. You’re _messed up_. All I want to do is help you. Save you from yourself. And boy, do you need saving.”

Dean’s wrists are of no importance anymore with all the other, much worse sensations on the rest of his body, so Dean hangs low enough in his confinements to be able to get down to the balls of his feet. He sobs for air through Sam’s words because the strikes finally stop coming, finally, but leave him burning and straining and regretting.

He brought this upon himself, and there is no denying that.

Maybe he deserves this. Someone stupid enough to get himself into such a fucked up situation _does_ deserve this.

“You torture yourself, and when that’s not enough, you come to _me_. Get your fill. Push you a little farther towards that edge.”

Sam is pacing again, slow and heavy and a force of nature, Dean at his mercy. It’s not only exhaustion now that makes Dean’s teeth clatter.

“Ever crossed your mind that you’re using me? Ever wondered what _I_ feel? What it does to me to see you doing these things, thrashing against your barbed wire fence, asking me to make it dig deeper, make it hurt, Sam, _please_?”

When Sam cups a warm, warm palm around the side of his face, Dean does his best to escape it; feet slipping on the floor and all. But there is nowhere to go, and he can’t even keep Sam from turning his face to the side. The blindfold doesn’t matter, doesn’t even truly exist. Dean knows exactly how Sam is looking at him right now. Dean’s sob comes wetter than he would have wanted.

Sam’s voice on the other hand isn’t even shaking. It’s in control, calm. In any other situation, this would be his soothing voice. Dean has heard this voice displaying the sweetest, the softest sides of Sam he had known so far. As Sam uses it now, all those tender moments become twisted. _Wrong_.

“I told you so often not to lie to me. I gave you a million chances to open up. I deserve a fucking _medal_ for the past few months. Or a tutu. Fuckin’ ballerina’ed through those marble shambles of yours, watching every single step, aware that the smallest mistake would be enough set you off.”

Dean can’t pin down what he is supposed to be feeling. The insults come without end and are as confusing as they are painful, angering. But Dean is present. He hasn’t lost it, not yet.

Sam _can_ be gentle – he just mostly doesn’t choose to be. This scene is nothing more than one of those _mostlies_.

What is happening here is _Sam_ , without any kind of restraint.

“Call me a fool for still trying, but... Got anything to say? Anything?”

The hint of sadness in Sam’s tone puzzles Dean, makes him come back some more from his pain-misery-emotions-mess. In the search for less stretch of his arms, he tries his best to get his legs straight underneath him once more. His ass and lower back sting worse than ever and maybe Sam tore through skin. Dean is panting, and everything is black. “Why do you do this?”

“I’m not doing anything. This is you. This is all. You.” There’s that bite again, easy as that. Sam is gone all of a sudden and replaced by a very down-to-earth (impatient, cruel, pissed) Wesson. “You know exactly what I’m talking about here. So collect whatever’s left in that walnut of yours and save both of us from this completely unnecessary hassle, why don’t you. I’m on my knees here, really.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” and it’s so honest that Dean will cry about it later.

“Oh, you do.”

“I don’t,” Dean insists. “C’mon, jus’, let me down and I won’t, we’ll, we’ll figure this out, talk about it...”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire, your hair sticks up like telephone wire.”

Dean sags with a whine, tosses his head. His feet are slipping again. The effort of keeping his shoulder from dislodging themselves seems impossible, and the forecast for the pain of that brings new desperation; small sounds, panted into the room.

_You can’t win, Smith._

Please don’t say that.

“Pet, I know all about you. Everything. So just get it over with. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

Can’t win. Can’t win. Can’t win. Dean Smith spits, “You’re insane,” and knows he’s right.

Silence.

Silence so final, so big, that it makes Dean’s expression derail.

“... Okay,” offers Sam. Nothing more than a huff, a sigh. “Can’t say I didn’t try. But I guess you need this. Shoulda known.”

Everything in Dean is racing. A million things to say, overshadowed by the fact that nothing will save him.

This lack of everything is more terrifying than getting beaten or humiliated, than being mocked and used and neglected.

Dean almost lets loose enough to sigh his relief when he can hear Sam finally, _finally_ moving. His mouth is running wild now, probably babbling useless things (Apologies? Pleadings? Insults?), but Sam doesn’t react in the slightest so maybe this is all in Dean’s head.

“I thought I’d be sorry... but I’m not.”

A faint little click, then another. Then.

Then...

_\--Dean? Uhm, we, we went to college together, him and I._

 

And everything stops.

 

_\--Would you say the two of you were close?  
\--Oh, uhm... Yeah, you could, uhm... Yeah. Roommates, buddies, so... Yeah. Kinda. We were best friends, back then._

Dean’s body stopped shaking (or maybe the room started up instead). “When did you...”

“Few days after you spilled your guts about Stanford.” While Sam says it, Dean thinks the exact same.

Some days after they met.

Sam knew – all this time.

The recording keeps playing.

 _\--You said you’re in contact with him? How is he?_  
_\--What’s the last you’ve heard of him?_  
_\--The morning after graduating, he was gone. Vanished. I asked around, but nobody knew where he was headed. I tried calling his cell, but he must have ditched it. When you called, I was so relieved. I thought something might’ve happened to him. I was worried sick for **years**._

Dean imagines that right now. Their old room. Matt still out cold with his blonde hair sticking out between the sheets and pillow. Innocent in his sleep. And then there’s Dean – coward on the run. (The best thing about losing all that weight was being able to get rid of his old clothes without the smallest indication of guilt.)

It’s quiet between them except for the recording. Then-Sam, Then-Matt. Dean remains silent. He tries to shut the voices out but they creep into him word by word.

Nothing could have prepared him for this. It’s not exactly pain, not like when Lisa told him they should split up, or when Sam suggested more or less the same. But it _is_. It _is_ , it exists and it tears. Dean isn’t sure if he would or even _could_ run if he wasn’t shackled. It’s a sweet kind of pain.

 _\--Please tell me he’s fine. Please. Is there any chance I might talk to him?_  
\--I don’t think that’s a good idea right now, Mr. Marsh. He doesn’t even know you and I are talking. It would upset him to see you out of the blue.  
\--(A sharp pause. Matt is apparently stunned by this possibility.) Why would it upset him?  
\--You tell me, Mr. Marsh.  
\--I don...... How much exactly did he tell you...?  
\--Not much more than what you just told me, to be honest. Roommates. Friends. (Matt couldn’t have known this was Sam, grinding his teeth oh-so finely. (Hell. They had barely just _met_ at that time. _)) Very close friends._  
_\--We had... I don’t know if I’m supposed to..._  
_\--Please, Matthew... Uhm, is it okay if I call you Matthew?_  
_\--I, y-yeah, sure._  
_\--Okay. So, Matthew, please don’t get me wrong – I’m just trying to wrap my head around all this. Dean is a very dear friend of mine. I just want to help._  
_\--I know. I know. ...... Okay, so. Actually, we...... We had this. This **very** close thing going on, if you know what I mean._  
_\--A relationship._  
_\--You could have called it like that, I guess. Yeah. (Matt, probably weighing the word back and forth. Seeing if it fits. Then maybe nods; tentatively first and more sincere later.) Yeah. We had that._

All Dean remembers: post-exam bliss. Shared beers. Football matches on crappy TV’s. Split microwaved meals. Bear hugs and handshakes and ‘I love you, man’s; shared clothes because why not and Matt never said _a single thing_.

Before Sam got to know Dean, the real Dean, this was what he found out. How he saw Dean all this time, probably. Compared. Baited. Waited – for a shoe to drop? But there never _was_ a shoe. But Sam hadn’t known that.

_I never lied to you._

Dean feels sick.

 _\--What went wrong?_  
_\--Nothing. I mean I don’t... I... The day he graduated, we uh... It got kinda emotional and... physical, and... (Nervous shuffling.) Do I have to say it?_  
_\--I think I’m getting the idea, Mr. Marsh._  
_\--Okay. So, uh, yeah... That happened. He seemed into it but maybe it went too fast for him? I don’t know. I never got to ask. We were kinda coming from a party, so... (Carefree chuckle at the memory.) Kinda, uhm, unhinged evening. We just had graduated, after all. And... well, he was gone the next morning. (A pause. Matt probably replaying the moment in his head, now again struck by grief. Speaking again, he seems less confident with his choice of words.) Maybe I did something wrong. Did I do something wrong? Does he talk about me? Like, at all?_  
_\--Every now and then._

“Not a lie,” Sam points out. “You talk in your sleep. You know that?”

No, Dean didn’t.

 _\--I just want to know what went wrong. I want to apologize to him, that’s all._  
_\--Even though you don’t know if it even was your fault he left?_  
_\--You know, Sam... Dean and me... We were like brothers. But still, he couldn’t be open to me about it. I thought he trusted me. But I was wrong. ...... It must have been my fault. If I would have been more reliable, then maybe he’d...... Sorry. ... Sorry. I’m being sappy. Sorry. (Shuffling; probably Matt recomposing, putting on a polite smile.) What was your question?_

A click, and the recording is over.

Dean’s eyes are closed behind the blindfold. Seems useless, but he needs it. Just another minute. Please.

“’Oh, Sam, please be gentle, I’ve never even _looked_ at someone else’s dick before.’” Even though it’s supposed to be overdramatic, ridiculous, it isn’t. Not when Dean can hear the seriousness, the pain so obviously. His eyebrows pull tight as he squirms, frowns, head trauma nasty and nauseating, but nothing is as bad as Sam right in front of his face, hissing, “ _Whore_.”

“It wasn’t like that, Sam.”

“I’m all ears. You wanna talk? I’ve got all the time in the world.”

Absolutely no freedom for Dean’s wrists. His calves are burning from the distress of balancing all his weight, and even the welts burning white-hot on his skin (still) do not compare to the aftertaste of Matt’s voice. Of the memories.

He feels breathless, detached. It had all looked so well. It had worked. Things had been going great.

Now, Smith is drowning all anew. “Sam, please.” If he ever was begging, this is it. “Please don’t make me do this.”

_Slumping down on the bed, drunk, laughing, still laughing when Matt pulls you back up, still laughing when you look him in the eye and ask, “What?” You’re not laughing anymore when he’s tender in that clumsy way which reminds you of back when you two didn’t know how close your hugs should go, and then he kisses you, and suddenly your world is blank._

“You bet your pretty sister’s head on it I’ll make you,” and the cane whistles through air.

This first hit is harder than anything Sam has ever applied to him, and even if Dean is screaming at the top of his lungs, it still isn’t enough to express his...

Whatever this is.

And Sam does it again. And again.

It doesn’t stop.

Dean is about to tear apart and melt down at the same time. He can feel everything and nothing – all is multiplied and alit and bright, every atom vibrating, echoing.

_He says, “I’ve waited so long,” and, “There just never really was the right moment to...” and you’re hurt for him and yourself, hurt for not knowing, not understanding him, and his arms are around you and they shouldn’t be (you know that, somehow), but he has eyes as wet as yours and don’t want him to be hurt, so you whisper, “It’s okay.”_

Dean sobs, “I’ll do ANYTHING!” or at least thinks he does, hopes. He barely has enough focus for getting the syllables out in the correct order, but the one thing he holds on to won’t fall. “Anything, but not THIS! Not this, Sam! PLEASE!”

“Begging. How original.” It doesn’t stop. “You’re mistaking me with someone who tolerates your bullshit, pet. Now talk.” A sweet pause to show off just how much Sam is controlling this. How easy it would be for him to stop. “Or not. I mean, I can do this all day.”

It’s incredible to be forced to accept that this is happening. That Sam can be like this. _Is_ like this. There’s a dribble of warmth down Dean’s back, and suddenly he remembers and yells, “Red!” but Sam keeps going. “Red, Sam, I said red! RED!” Sam keeps going. Panic, bland and ugly, throws Dean off his feet. “It’s in the contract, you gotta stop! You gotta let me GO!”

“Now you’re just _trying_ to make me angry, aren’t you?”

“Red!”

Sam keeps going.

“SAM!”

_You stumble backwards because he pushes you oh-so softly and when kisses you again **you let him** , your palms with spread-wide fingers on his chest to get some of the weight off of yourself and you think of Paula, what she would do if she knew her boyfriend was making out with you._

_He pushes his hands under your shirt and you just kind of... gasp, and then he touches you forever and you don’t want to feel it, don’t want to hear his panting or the wet noises of your kisses. You close your eyes and nothing really disappears. You decide that it will have to do._

“Stop! STOP!”

“Why don’t you just fucking SAY IT?! Fucking SAY THAT HE RAPED YOU!”

“He DIDN’T!” Dean is delirious; gasping, drooling, flailing without purpose. “It wasn’t, I, I wasn’t-“

_He says, “I’ve never done this before,” and you can’t reply, on your back and watching him take his own and then your jeans off, shorts down and he shivers and stares and he’s hard and you’re not. You want to cry but also hide but also run but he’s on top of you again and you kind of do... nothing at all, his hands pressing over you like he wants you, like he’s desperate for you and that makes you sad once more because you don’t know what that’s like, have never wanted someone this bad. He whispers, “Can I?” and your hands fly to his throat because he’s already doing it, and you hold on and you don’t want to feel but you feel_

_so_

_much._

“I didn’t say anything. I jus’ let him, an’... He didn’t, he...”

The cane is still hitting him, tearing him open in new places. Dean can _feel_ that, and it frightens him.

 **_Matt_ ** _lies down between your legs and **Matt** is blissed out, but even though you hate it you can’t say a word, everything is stuck inside of you, held tight and rough just like you hold **Matt** , as if you love him back, as if you enjoy this, and he’s grunting and you’re grunting and the ceiling is very grey, so very very grey, and staring at it helps killing time, somehow._

“I’m not a victim!” It’s so loud, so important. Feels good saying it, screaming it. “I’m not a fucking VICTIM, SAM!”

“You love him that much? Still protecting him like that?” A nasty one that goes too deep; Dean shrieks. “Now isn’t that lovely.”

“You don’t UNDERSTAND!”

“And how COULD I when you’re not using your GODDAMN MOUTH, DEAN?!”

“HE SAVED ME!”

The cane stops singing, finally; Dean has got tears streaming down his face because this is heaven, this warm rush down the back of his thighs and the relief. But these are only physical things.

He had tried so hard. So so hard. And now it’s lost.

Dean Smith starts to babble between convulsing and slipping. “There was this, at the fraternity, they... Everyone was so nice an’, some point this guy pulls me aside ‘n says ‘don’t drink anything, they said they were gonna slip you something’, and I jus’... I thought it was all stupid jokes. Pledge week, and, freshmen, an’... Without him, they’d... I’d...”

_“I mean, c’mon, look at you,” (and you can’t help wondering now if he had looked at you just like them) and he tells you they would have made you put out for the entire house to prove you’re worth joining them and maybe again after that, too, just because they would feel like it. He shivers and you just stare at him, cannot believe, but you are grateful he’s here and you don’t have to be disgusted all by yourself. So, that’s how you two meet, and neither of you ever mentions it again._

Barely audible, there’s Sam. “That changes nothing about what he did.”

“I owed him.” The sagging is not good, Dean knows, but he can’t hold back from it. The absence of new hits, this peaceful silence, lures him in. He’s soaked in so many more ways than one, definitely hurt, but he needs to keep explaining. It’s important. “I owed him, Sam. You shoulda seen him, that night.” If it’s only half as rough listening as it is speaking, then Sam is making great efforts here. Dean sways, head dropping, weak. “It suddenly all made sense when he kissed me... but it was too late... I never saw that he... He must’ve... I think it had started ages ago... I just never...” Dean sniffles, then realizes it won’t help much, then abandons the hassle.

_You’re not sure if you’re crying but he is, a little, but maybe it’s only sweat and you are too caught up in not being caught up, and he finishes at some point and falls asleep just like that. He’s still holding your hand._

“I shoulda seen it... If I would’ve noticed earlier, I could’ve... But it was too late...”

_It’s hard – realizing all the pictures you took of this room will never mean the same to you. That you will have to discard them. That the last four years are something you will have to handle with care from now on. You can’t think of Stanford without thinking of him. Stanford, for you, doesn’t exist without him. You feel stupid, and useless, and you regret. You regret so much._

“I had led him on... It was my responsibility...” If the blindfold wasn’t there, Dean would look up now. Yeah. He would use his eyes to prove it to Sam – that he’s honest. That this is not a lie. No, everything but that. “He was my best friend. I owed him that.”

“All this.” Where there was nothing but softness the last time Sam spoke, it is now (again) faintly sprinkled with anger. But not the kind of anger that would bring a cane alive; no. More like the anger Dean is familiar with – that helpless, mute kind of anger (the one that makes you ball your fists, bite your tongue). “There was all this, so much shit going on. And you never felt like you should maybe let me in on that?”

“I couldn’t.” And he shouldn’t have. There are things you shouldn’t touch, and Dean did it. And now it’s out there. Can’t be taken back.

“I hurt you.” Yeah. Yeah, Sam did. But Dean could have said something. But he didn’t. Because, maybe, he didn’t care. Wanted to be able to not care. It was all going so well. “You let me hurt you, willingly. You were damaged, and you let me trample all over you.”

Dean is very tired. He realizes that just now. This here is over anyway, isn’t it? “Sam. Let me go.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

Hysteria makes Dean flash a weak smile, makes him frown. Oh, poor little Sam. Dean tries, “You can’t keep me hanging here forever,” and hopes Sam believes him.

“Maybe I can.”

That little kid attitude always gets to Dean. Sam knows that, most obviously. Maybe he just wants to see Dean smile, because how couldn’t Dean do that? Ah, this entire day is such a mess.

Dean shakes his head as he croaks, “This is not what you want.” And this, he knows.

Sam inhales deeply. If Dean had his arms free, he’d sling them around Sam, pull him close to console him. Maybe Sam is right. Maybe Dean _is_ damaged. “No,” Sam croaks eventually. “It isn’t.” Maybe Sam is smiling, too.

“Let me go.” Both doors are unlocked. “Sam. Let. Me. Go.”

“What will happen if I do?”

“We’ll talk it out. Talk about it. Get it straightened out. We’ll... Sam... Please, man, I’m...”

Sam is about to crack. Dean can feel it. Just a little more. (Just hold out a little bit longer.)

“Sammy, please.”

The infinite seconds before Sam starts fidgeting with the chain are long enough for Dean to envision the possible “no”. Said vision is what gives him the strength to wait those other impossible moments Sam needs to get him down, undo the cuffs. Dean counts up and down in Spanish (up and down, down and up) to keep from doing or thinking anything else.

Sam’s first step back to put the chains aside is Dean’s cue.

Takes a second to stumble back against the nearest wall, rip the blindfold from his eyes. Dean almost blacks out from the pain but Sam’s utterly horrified expression as he watches him grab for his clothes that are still scattered on the floor keeps him alert, awake, alive.

A muscle somewhere in Sam must have twitched because Dean feels himself shouting, “DON’T FUCKING MOVE!”

And Sam, probably for the first time since Dean met him, does what Dean tells him without further hesitation.

Dean Smith slips back into his clothes, smells his own blood and piss and feels his flesh gaping in what must be gashes, but he doesn’t think about that, not now. Adrenaline; nothing else in his veins. Dean’s eyes are sharp despite the bright lights in the room. Painted black walls, simplistic cupboard in the corner, nothing out in the open except for what looks like some sort of bench; wooden panels on the walls hint to built-in closets, maybe. Halogen lamps. Everything but romantic, but that’s just Sam’s style, isn’t it.

Sam still hasn’t moved. “I will leave now,” Dean announces. He sounds nothing like himself but that is only a distant side note. “And you won’t stop me.”

Sam wears little droplets of Dean on his skin and clothes. Looks surreal. This overgrown man, tall as a tree, breathing calm and deep. His eyes are a little wet, but otherwise, there is no trace of anything.

Dean was right: Sam doesn’t stop him.

Stairs stairs stairs and then a blast of fresh air, chilling him down to his bones and fuck it’s freezing, his breath clouding in front of mouth and nose and it’s so much brighter outside – cab, gotta get a car, cab, train, plane, home, just home, Matt what the fuck did you put in this lasagna it’s delicious, god, what- “Jackson Avenue, pl-l-l-l-l-lease.” Worlds of fire, lava in and on and underneath Dean’s skin, boiling him alive, “I’m-m-m-m-m fine, j-j-j-just drive. _Pl-l-l-l-l-l-lease_. How many more t-t-t-t-times, I- Just D-D-D-D-DRIVE, for fuck’s SAKE!!” and things are moving but he isn’t, always stuck, see I told you, you have serious issues – “Please, j-j-j-jus-s-s-s-st d-d-d-d-d-“ no air, eyes rolling back, tongue twice its size and why is he in so much pain?

Dean doesn’t recall opening the cab door, but while the driver makes a full stop and yells, “HEY!” Dean empties his stomach into the curb. “Holy- What- Man, what’s with your- Oh goddammit, my seats! HEY!” Dean heaves and heaves and hears “blood” and yeah, he can smell that too, just... Horns are blaring behind them but the driver exits the car, circles it to get to Dean, props him up in the backseat, puts the seatbelt on. He can barely contain the mess of limbs Smith is starting to flail around with all his power, screaming in pain he can’t categorize. “I’ll bring you to the hospital! God! FUCK! Hold the fuck STILL!”

Lying on his side is the only way to go, and Dean adds some salt to the iron he left in this poor bastard’s car. Crying is maybe just as horrible as throwing up, but Dean is bawling like a baby in this stranger’s company and he can’t do a damn thing about it. 

~ 

By the time they tell him he’ll need stitches he’s already clear enough again to put his signature under a polite check for the driver who doesn’t say thanks, just throws Dean a last uncertain glare and then he’s gone. Dean drops back down, cheek against hospital cot. Dead and alive at the same time, he take a first, real breath. Dean Smith closes his eyes.

People are busy here. A constant murmur is audible behind the thin curtain shielding the doc and him. Dean likes that. Makes him feel less alone. Assures him that at least some things are still in order. They gave him pain medication so he won’t faint. Adrenaline decreases. Soreness comes.

“I will send a nurse over to take pictures once I’m done.”

Dean slurs, “What? Why?” He actually frowns. That crumples the gauze pad they put on his forehead, and the tickle is irritating.

“For the police report.” The doc lowers her voice for that, as if it’s something secret, dirty. Maybe Dean makes a disapproving noise, since the doc continues, “Don’t worry about that now. We’ll give you the medical reports and then you can-“

“I’m not gonna- whatthefuck. I’m not gonna fucking report any of... _Jesus_.” Talking hurts. Thinking hurts. Being stitched up, too. Dean groans into the cot.

Some silence before she tries again. “Mr. Smith, I know you’re scared, but-“

“It was an _accident_ ,” Smith hisses. “Fuckin’... _sex accident_.” The words feel as sick as they feel real. Humiliating. Dean’s hands are in fists. They didn’t put bandages on his wrists. Said the chafing needs air to heal up. “I asked for it. I wanted it.”

Dean isn’t fucking _scared_.

Stunned silence and even the damn needle doesn’t move anymore. “So what?! I’m fucking _paying_ you, aren’t I? So shut the fuck up!”

She wasn’t even talking anymore, and she doesn’t start up again after it either. 

~ 

Dean Smith makes it home and up to his apartment in one piece, all with the nice floating help of all those tiny little pills. He raids his fridge while he tries to leave a notice of absence (will call again tomorrow, don’t wait up, can’t say how many days, jus’, a couple, probably, just don’t wait up, sorry, thank you, talk to you later) on Rhonda’s voice mail. Half or something of a jug of each soy milk and then orange juice go down his throat like a poem. Corn flakes are too dry, nuts as well, so there’s some dried fruit he digs into, two overripe bananas, almond cream. He can’t sit down so he’s hunched over the counter on his elbows, head hanging, hoping his legs will carry him until he reaches his bed. They do.

Dean likes his beddings thin. He likes linen-like fabrics and hard mattresses. He liked his laundry detergent until he fell in love with Sam’s, and now all what used to be Dean’s is soaked with Sam.

Dean wants to laugh, but tears are coming instead.

So this is what he is left with. A memory, stapled to violet leaves and sandalwood. _(I’m afraid those will leave scars, Mr. Smith.)_

Dean’s thumb presses in a pattern he knows by heart, and the sorry little phone clutched in his palm is the only comfort he has.

She picks up on the fourth ringing, and she sounds sleep-deprived and soft, as always. Dean curls in on himself, in the sound of her voice and the blandness of his bed, and he frowns and cries and smiles at the same time.

So some things _do_ never change. Thank god.

“Hey, Mom.”


	18. Chapter 18

While he is aware of coming to, Dean refuses to open his eyes just yet. Just another moment. He’s still so tired.

His consciousness pieces itself together. Something that feels like a warm, soothing veil nudges it backwards though, keeping it from progressing any further.

As if it was saying: don’t. It’s better this way.

He believes in what the veil says, and, afraid of what it might be it is protecting him from, turns to shield himself as well. Dean breathes, face-down. The pillow is not under his head, and he has one knee pulled up, arms bent with his hands flat on the bed.

Despite his concentration, the dam eventually breaks. Instead of in the form of a tsunami, it overcomes him in an increasing stream, fluent, overwhelming, but not strong enough to knock him off his feet.

Dean stands tall on the ground of this ocean while he drowns.

His eyes are still closed. He still hasn’t moved an inch. Can feel the sting, the pull, the inflammation of his skin where they had stitched him. Where they had to take care of what Sam had left him with.

_but you give me no other choice._

Dean curls in on himself with the next inhale – fingers, toes, torso, legs, arms, head. The pain makes him hiss, stop, uncurl again. The first thing he looks at is his own hand that is fisted into the sheets.

He always liked his bedroom. Clean, minimalistic; clutter in a room equals to clutter in one’s mind. White sheets, bright curtains.

All that white turns the split red on his knuckles so much more obvious. The chafing around his wrist, too. Ugly, even.

Ruined.

_Say ‘thank you for punishing me, sir’._

Dean waits for tears that won’t come.

~ 

Smith eventually gets up when he realizes he has yet to explain his absence to his secretary and superiors. It’s harder than expected and the pain isn’t all of what seems to tie him to the bed. Smith is... tired. Exhausted. Goddamn, he could sleep for _days_. He has responsibilities though, and he will take care of them, because that’s what one does, how it’s supposed to work in society. Taxes don’t pay themselves and if everyone kept lying in their bed 24/7, humanity would rot. So get over it, get up, get the phone, call someone in HR who isn’t Sam and call in sick, give yourself three days. Laugh when Rhonda expresses her honest concern but don’t erase the agony in your voice either; you still have to sound convincing.

She tells him, “Take care of yourself, sir,” and he smiles into the receiver and hums, “I will, thank you,” even though he has no fucking damn clue on how to do that. Many lies are ahead of him now, he realizes. Nothing bad about starting right away.

Dean nips from a glass of water and nibbles on one last dry square of toast before both are gone. He does it standing up. If he’s in for any leftover luck, he’ll be able to sit down three days from now like he told Rhonda he would.

Dean is still hungry. He hesitates before opening the fridge once more because he knows it’s empty. And, yeah, still empty. Except for an unopened jar of sweet mustard (something French and fancy and useless) and a half-gone bottle of Evian, there is nothing.

It’s a very clean fridge. A clean, hygienic kitchen is both crucial for enjoying your meals and staying healthy.

The fridge is still open, Dean’s hand still on its handle, and he stares at the mustard and thinks how he hasn’t eaten at his own home for entire weeks in a row because he always ended up at Sam’s, or went out to eat with Sam. How he has no one, absolutely _no one_ he knows in this multiple million inhabitants city, whom he could ask for help. Except for Sam.

By the time Dean closes the fridge, the water bottle is covered in condensation. A glance at the clock on his oven tells Dean that it’s quarter to eight. After standing in the middle of the living room for a while – watching the apartment block on the other side of the street through the windows, gently calibrating his weight on his feet to find a state that balances his pain just right (there is no such thing though, he learns) – Smith retrieves his phone and looks up online grocery shopping services. Old ladies use these, he figures, and disabled people, and rich, lazy people. He spends an hour choosing a service and another selecting the actual items. Even though he won’t be able to work out for now, he goes high-fat, high-carb, high-fucking-everything. Even cheese. He’s craving something gooey, soft, soothing, and he waits for the self-hatred to kick in until he has to accept that it won’t. Hits ‘order’, locks his phone, puts it aside, sighs, keeps watching his phone without much reason. He should probably go to the bathroom. Or put pants on. Or both.

Dean waddles back into the bedroom and, as always, ignores his reflection in the tall mirror sliding door of his wardrobe. He picks out the loosest pair of lounge pants he can find, something pre-Sam, but because he has his eyes casted down to examine a faulty seam, they catch a little detail in the mirror that suddenly overtakes Dean’s entire attention.

He gawps at it, and the pants in his fist are still swinging in the air from the movement of pulling them out of the wardrobe. Like a pendulum, waving, mocking Dean in his devastation.

He had completely forgotten about the chastity cage.

He’ll have to ask Sam for the key.

He’ll have to contact Sam. Will have to talk to Sam. Will have to be close enough for Sam to hand him the key. Be in a room with Sam, share the same air as Sam, hear Sam’s voice.

_Who is dumb enough to come crawling right up the lap of their tormenter?_

Sam will make him beg. Will force him to do something, anything, because he can; Dean just _knows_ , it’s practically law, pure logic and like an icy drill to Dean’s sorry stomach.

_If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re _ **asking**_ for it._

The tears, now, are coming.

~ 

“Thank you, Gabe. Really. It means a lot.”

“You’re welcome and, oh, also the most loyal bitch this company has ever seen. Congratulations.”

Speight stomps on the remains of his cigarette. He has the decency to blow his smoke sideways, away from Dean, but the wind voids his efforts.

“Aren’t you on sick leave though? No offense, Smith, but you look like shit. If this is work, then I don’t see why you’re bothering. Ignoring, of course, the ‘loyal bitch’ thing you have going on. But, seriously, it’s not like CS is gonna explode without you.”

Dean forces a smile as if Speight cared about formalities like that. Speight’s a dick, rude, loud, and one of the brightest heads CS and the entire state has ever seen. When Dean is polite enough to leave all personal apathies aside, Speight actually is someone to look up to. Speaking professionally. Job-wise. There are a handful of more sympathetic colleagues Dean could have asked instead, but he chose Speight for a reason.

Novak, for example, would have been too easy to be played with and then sent off, leaving Dean alone with Sam, and that’s absolutely not going to happen. Shurley, he... God, Dean couldn’t live with himself, knowing he would have shoved him under the wheels of what is Sam’s horribly persistent manner of holding a grudge. Masters would have probably seen through everything in the matter of seconds.

No, Speight is just right: Sam despises him but can’t get him fired. Sam is annoyed by him and most likely will want to get rid of his company as fast as possible, even if it meant sending Dean away, too. And Speight is just smart enough to see through a lot of things, but then again is too keen on getting on Sam’s nerves to see through what is between Sam and Dean.

Officially, this is not a quest for the key to Dean’s cock cage, and officially Sam didn’t strip the skin from Dean’s ass, and officially Dean isn’t about to have a nervous breakdown from the weight of having to pretend all is fine while climbing right into this lion’s mouth.

Dean Smith is officially ‘the most loyal bitch’ to this company, hardworking and loyal even when on sick leave, and he looks like shit because _he is on sick leave_ , because _he is sick_.

Officially, this is all highly professional and not emotional at all. A good, strong charade to hold on to. He can do this. At least this isn’t house number fifty.

Dean doesn’t even know for certain that Sam is here, but he hopes for the best (worst) and rings the bell, eyes casted downwards, sweating under his coat despite the freezing temperatures outside, head bent, hand quickly slipping back into his pocket. The consistent smack-smack-smack of Speight’s chewing gum is another highly appreciated (even if unexpected) anchor.

Dean clears his throat. He hopes Speight can’t see through him, can’t see him blinking, tensing, when the most quiet shuffle behind the door announces Sam in his predator silence.

Smith wills his shoulders to square, his knees to press straight. Knows Sam is peering through the spyhole right now, seeing Dean, watching Dean. Probably, no, _must_ spot Speight, too. Could choose not to open the door – but Dean would insist. Bang his fist on the door. It’s a work matter, nothing personal. Absolutely _un_ -personal. It’s for the company’s good, and Dean is loyal and hardworking. It’s a good lie. Fucking _foolproof_.

Dean still wants to run when the door opens, when he has to pick his gaze up from Sam’s naked feet, look the man in the eye, not be personal about this.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?”

“Hi, uhm, sir. Sorry for the unexpected visit, but, I.” Okay, calm down. You’ve got this. Breathe. “I need the keys. To the, that drawer in the archives.” Dean’s eyes flicker from doorframe to slightly closer to Sam’s ear, then away again. “... You know which one.”

“Oh.” Almost no hesitation to that.

Of course Sam had planned on this leverage, just maybe hadn’t planned on Dean being this scared, this careful now, to equip himself with a potential witness. It’s hard to tell whether Sam genuinely relaxed like his voice and body language indicate – or secretly pissed. Dean isn’t eager to find out.

“The one with the Cabalry contracts, right?”

“Yes. Yes, that one.”

“Of course.”

Easy. Too easy. God, Dean is two inches from running right now. He _has_ _to_ stand his ground though and claws at his cuticles where they are hidden all safe and sound in the pockets of his coat.

Sam eyes him (eats him _up_ ) head to toe. If Dean was brave enough to return the eye contact, he would find the most tender doe gaze. Asshole. “You look horrible, Smith. Would you two like to come in and sit down while I go and get it? A drink, coffee?”

“No, thank you,” sneers Speight; and thank _god_ for that.

“Mr. Speight.” Immediately drop in sympathy. Sam’s voice strains higher when he is annoyed. “Do you need anything or – how come you’re here?”

“I’m Schmitty’s emergency nurse, _sir_. Asked me to make sure he won’t collapse so you won’t have to go through the hassle of going all Baywatch on him, or, worse, need to rid yourself of his diseased, lifeless body, _sir_.”

“I see,” states Sam. For a horrifying second, Dean believes Sam might say something more, prolong this torture further – but he steps back then, tells the two men on his doorstep that he’ll be right back, and closes the door between Dean and him.

Dean must have exhaled loud enough for Speight to notice it. It gets him an almost gentle pat on the shoulder and a truly soft, “Don’t let it get to you. He’s a prick to all of us.”

Dean thanks him and tries to keep his breathing in line.

Time has no meaning. Every second Sam isn’t coming back feels too long, like a sure sign he changed his mind, that all of Dean’s fears will come true – that this is just another game of Sam’s to humiliate Dean, crush his hopes where he barely was able to get them up in the first place.

Maybe he shouldn’t have come here. Could have learned how to pick a lock. Could have, could have, could have, but is here, right here, because his stupid pride has already been fed up by having the hospital staff see the fetish device between his legs. Like a dog tag. A branding, fucking neon sign – pervert incoming. Dean Smith’s pride is not a very durable thing.

Again, Dean makes out the smallest noises, braces himself but can’t help but to let all possible scenarios flash in front of his eyes: ‘Ooops, wrong key, could you identify the right one, please, Smith?’ or ‘Can’t find it, please come back tomorrow (and again tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, until you’re alone so I can finally lock you up like I should have done last time I had the chance)’ or ‘I just stumbled upon an issue I had wanted to ask you about regarding the Fisher files, and since you’re here, well, it’s on a deadline, so, it would take only a second, promise’.

In reality, the Real World, though, the door opens just enough for Sam to peek through, extend his arm – hold out the tiny little key.

“There you go,” he says. Wesson-friendly. Official.

Dean manages to hold his hand underneath Sam’s, palm up, and feels a bead of sweat pearling down the back of his hairline. Fucking _flinches_ at the drop of the object into his hand. It’s warm. Hand-warm. Sam’s hand. Or maybe Sam’s pocket, close to his body, all along, for _days_ , ever since he had locked Dean up.

Sam’s warmth, and Sam’s wrath and pain and power, all soaking into Dean’s skin and flesh and bones now, spoiling his blood, every molecule he possesses.

“No ‘thank you’?” Sam hums. Calm. Soft. Almost secret with how quietly he says it. As if Speight wasn’t here, as if nothing else existed but the two of them, Sam and Dean, and Dean ultimately knows that’s how it is and will always be, in a way.

Dean croaks, “Thank you, sir,” and blames his failing voice on the ‘flu’ he is struggling with.

The goodbyes are short, and Dean can’t get into the elevator and outside quick enough, almost forgets about Speight who rolls his eyes as he helps Dean into the next best cab. The man props himself against the door and frowns at Dean through the rolled-down window.

“I won’t even ask how the hell you know where he lives.”

“Oh, we’re kinda hitting it off.” Dean tries a weak smile. “He can be... nice. Sometimes.”

“No, listen, this man is _poison_. You don’t have to put up with that, eating lunch with him every other day like that. He probably doesn’t even know your first name. Seriously – fuck him.” Heavy pats on the cab signal the driver to take off. “Take some care of yourself, kid. Stay safe out there.”

“Thank you.”

“Anytime, buddy.”

Speight doesn’t know Dean’s first name either, but neither of them mentions it.

~ 

After considering the risks of throwing the device out of the window, Dean has to settle with abandoning it in the farthest hidden corner, under the sink, right next to the bleach. Could pour said bleach over the thing, let it rust and crumble and then break it down with a hammer eventually. Maybe later.

Dean shovels through a heap of mac ‘n cheese while he watches some ominous hospital telenovela. Taking a leak is so much easier now that he can do it standing up again. Strange, to have his bare dick back in his hands. Stranger that it _hadn’t_ been this way lately. But that’s over now. Everything. All of it. He belongs to himself again now.

The doc had advised him to shower the very next day, but Dean only dares to do it another day later. He still hasn’t inspected the damage yet since he refuses to acknowledge its existence altogether, and he intends to keep it that way. So he stares at his toes, not at the pink water, not at the small crumbs of scab worming their way down the drain.

It’ll be better tomorrow. And even better the day after that. And so on. And so on. It’ll be like nothing ever happened. Don’t let it get to you. You’re stronger than this.

Jo calls that night to check on him. Mom must have told her he kind of... lost it. She says she’s worried and Dean tells his little sister, “It’s alright, just the flu, and a hard week. Just a hard time, lately.” She says she misses him and he promises it’s the same for him. He asks about Naomi and for the glorious one and a half hours of their phone call, Dean Smith doesn’t have to distract himself, and afterwards, alone again, in the streetlight-lit bedroom, Dean reminds himself that he is, in fact, _not_ alone. He has his family – mom, dad, Jo and her husband Victor, little Naomi. That’s five people. Five is a lot. He’s never had that many friends at the same time and, frankly, also never felt like he would be missing out on anything that way. The private Smith is a solitary guy, and that’s okay. He’s been like this ever since he can remember.

At least after Matt.

Yeah. Had been... different, after Matt. He was lucky to run into Lisa on a job event, even luckier that she had the will and patience to invite him for a few drinks to her and her colleagues’ table. God knows Dean wouldn’t have left his apartment for anything but grocery runs or work. She had warmed him back into an almost human state at that time. She made a lot of things possible again.

But after her, it was just the same, as if all of their shared years left no true impression on Dean, no dent, no alternation. True, Dean had been more... joyful, this time around, but.

It had still stuck with him. All of it. The entire mess.

The guilt. The mistrust. The fear.

It had never left him. Even now, after Sam, it’s here.

... After Sam.

After Sam.

It’s over with Sam. Isn’t it? Done. Must be. Dean wants it to be, at least. What Sam wants doesn’t matter. It’s over for Dean. Dean knows he is dumb, but not _that_ dumb.

Doesn’t even have anything to do with ‘dumb’ or ‘clever’ – everything about Sam, every little thought, sends Dean shivering now. It’s a physical thing. Dean’s body rejects every hint that could turn out to be about Sam. Crawling skin, standing hairs, snarl kept behind clenched teeth, bile up his throat. Disgust is all he can feel.

Maybe Dean is destined to be this way – alone. Maybe that’s the simple truth. Maybe he’s the one attracting all that bad luck. Karma or something. From a former life. Another universe. Another Him.

It hadn’t been half as bad before Sam, had it? Dean had had his workouts – his diets – his job. He had been pretty fulfilled back then, hadn’t he? He had never been bored, not for a minute; at least can’t remember. Everything had had its place and time. Dean had been running on a modest schedule.

It had worked before, and it will work again.

~ 

“Good morning.” “Morning.” “Morning.” “Good morn’n.” “Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

Dean keeps his eyes on the lit buttons of the elevator. Wesson, right next to him, says he’s happy to have Smith back in business and hopes he’s better now. Dean smiles for the crowd in the elevator, not for Sam, and says, “Yeah, I’m good, thanks,” without a single crack to his voice. He has to throw up five minutes later when he’s in the privacy of his personal bathroom, but it’s still a victory.

Small steps, Smith. Very small. Baby steps. Mice. Lice. _Very_ small. You can do it.

When Dean asks on the way down to the cafeteria if he could sit with him, Novak looks confused and then surprised and then embarrassed that he didn’t immediately say ‘yes’ to his boss. Dean says it’s okay and laughs, pats Novak’s shoulder in that buddy-manner that’s acceptable around here. Dean chews through two entire sandwiches and tries to pretend to take part in the small talk happening at the table. Sam isn’t here though, and that’s good, that’s what counts.

“And as you can see here, we were able to increase the profitability of product lines A, B and E, but-“

“Excuse me, Smith?”

Dean pretends to look straight at his boss, but in the darkness of the meeting room only lit by the presentation he’s projecting onto the whiteboard, nobody can tell he’s missing by miles.

Dean can see Sam’s glasses though, how they reflect the blue light from where he’s looking at. The bright white of his button-down. The width of his shoulders.

“Yes, sir?”

“Would you be so kind to show the charts from two slides back? I think I saw something odd.”

Dean thumbs the trigger of his remote control and smiles at the spot on the wall.

“Of course, sir.”

Dean can do this. He can.

~ 

Sam doesn’t call. Sam doesn’t make weird comments at work. Sam doesn’t show up at the gym, at least not when Dean is around. For the first week, that’s heavenly.

By the third, it’s hell.

He must be planning something big, something unspeakable. Kidnapping? Torture? Public humiliation? He has so much leverage on Dean, so much information, still has the contract with Dean’s signature on it. Texts. Voice mails. Dean’s mind is racing. Every pound he had gained under Sam’s ministrations has long melted away.

If he’d only finally do it – whatever ‘it’ is. Just go through with it. Get it over with.

This is Dean, running on coffee and bare nerves.

Where he first avoided Sam like the plague, he now catches himself in the act of liberally searching for the man – scanning rooms, hallways, listening for a voice. It still gets him sick every time he does end up spotting him, yes. Nothing is forgiven, after all, and Dean is not stupid. He has to stay alert though, he tells himself, has to, at all times. He gets an additional set of locks for his apartment door, and bolting everything shut as soon as he returns home quickly becomes the highlight of his day. It soothes him. It’s _his_ space, his alone, and nobody can get to him here. Especially not Sam. Never again Sam.

Another night he can’t seem to fall asleep, Dean feels over his ribs – these long, prominent ridges under his skin – as he studies the blank ceiling above his bed. All he has had today was the burger Novak talked him into during lunch. His stupid stomach growls at the thought of how greasy, how tasteless it had been. Even Sam who had been so desperate for Dean to pile on pounds wouldn’t have made him eat that crap. But Dean chose to eat it, freely, so fuck him very much.

Dean’s hand shoves down his boxer shorts. He keeps his eyes open, wide awake, and waits for the rush of relaxation arousal touching himself brings. It’s been a while. Maybe that’s why it takes a long while until he feels anything at all, and even then it’s only a very faint, very far away stir of sensation. As if it tried to escape Dean as soon as it comes into sight. Slipping away; unwilling. The climax is barely worth a shudder, Dean’s dick only half hard. Dean is angry when he grabs a nearby kleenex to wipe the mess away. Not satisfied, not relaxed, just... angry. At least he does fall asleep afterwards, eventually.

At some points, he is sure Wesson is watching him. Can see right through Dean’s façade, his toughness and professionalism, and sees the useless, sad excuse of a man he truly is. How weak Dean is. How Sam is just waiting for an opportunity to slip right back into Dean’s life, just like that, as if nothing’s ever happened.

Dean doesn’t dare to touch or even look at the scars for another two weeks after examining them for the first time. The doc had removed all stitches and had commented on how either good or bad Dean has helped to get the healing along (he doesn’t remember her overall rating and couldn’t have cared less about her opinion), but all Dean had had eyes for were these ugly, swollen gashes of a stitched-up him. Dean had been faintly aware of how the doc got quieter and quieter the less he paid attention to her, too distracted by the sensation under his fingertips.

It had stung, a bit. Hot to the touch after being irritated anew by the procedure and disinfection. Engorged. Padded. Tender, pink.

It would never go away. He would look like this, forever.

Would be reminded. At every touch, every sight.

Would have to explain to anyone who would catch a glimpse of this mess, this _mark_ ; to anyone who would gasp and be shocked and ask him how the hell this happened. And Dean would have to answer. Would _have to_ , because no handsome smile could dull their impression after seeing him like that. Sam had made sure of it.

Week five. It would have been their anniversary yesterday. Their first kiss or something, back in that black room disguised as a restaurant Sam had lured him into. Dean tries to keep the earlier protein bar inside of his stomach and stares ahead, ignores Sam jogging three machines to his right.

He’s fucking terrified, but runs harder. The more he sweats, the better. Explains everything – the shaking, the irritation, the tendency of curling in on himself even while walking. Sam wouldn’t dare to do anything here. There are cameras, everywhere, and staff is present, too. Sam wouldn’t. Sam wouldn’t.

Sam – doesn’t. Talk. Or look. Neither does he avoid. Towels himself down, leaves some drops of sweat behind on the treadmill and heads towards the weights. Leaves Dean behind, wheezing and choking, and no, that’s sweat, just something in his eye, shut up.

There is no Sam in the showers and no Sam in the sauna. There is no note or letter slipped into Dean’s locker, and there are no missed calls or texts on Dean’s phone.

Dean had deleted Sam’s number but knows he’d recognize the tone, the choice of words. Would recognize him by the sounds of his breathing alone.

Everyone wants to head on to some club Dean doesn’t know. If he had any excuse, he’d talk himself out of it – but let’s face it, Smith: it’s Friday. These people are your colleagues. You offered them to call you by your first name, finally, and they told you all of theirs, and it almost feels like you’re closer to them now, like you really are one of them. You’re on a few drinks, starting to lose some inches of that giant stick up your ass, and some more won’t hurt you. Maybe they’ll like you even more, knowing you do have a decent alcohol tolerance. Will make them respect you even more. Clever _and_ a party animal. Yeah. You like that image. Sounds like someone nice. Someone who’s fun to work with. Someone people could want to befriend. Yeah. And, also, it’s not like you have anything better to do.

This is Dean, drowning his sorrows in alcohol like the responsible adult he is.

Eighties’ pop and watery drinks, beer that’s just tasteless but has fancy pictures printed onto the bottles. Milton and Masters down two rounds of shots with Dean before they disappear to the dancefloor where Novak welcomes them with a definitely too drunk cheer. Everyone is still in their office suits and their little group is not the only after-work cluster of customers. In fact, only very few people here look like they don’t make their money sitting in a boxed-in office. The sight saddens Dean enough to invite Shurley to another round. The whiskey is a joke, just like Dean’s fucking life.

He scans the room, one arm stabilizing him on the bar, holding on to another boring beer. He lets his gaze graze over endless heads, some less bald than others. The lights are dancing just as eager as the pent-up office crowd, so colorful it mocks the dominantly uniform grey of everyone’s suits. Milton thinks she looks great and ‘individual’ in her yellow costume, but Dean can tell she ordered it from some ‘hip’ fashion store online that has their stuff sewn in backyard alleys in goddamn Bangladesh, and it fucking _shows_ , and it doesn’t even _fit_ her that well.

Sam wouldn’t even get caught _looking_ at someone wearing something ugly as that.

Dean knows Sam hates Milton and her honest smile with a passion, and that he made her cry in front of the entire department some days ago. It had been unnecessary, unfair, but people accept that because Mr. Wesson is Mr. Wesson, and that’s just how it is – hey, simply don’t listen, don’t take it personal, don’t fucking slit your wrists over him dehumanizing you for transposing those two digits in your monthly report. He’s an ass, so get with it or get lost. Sink or swim.

She takes it like a champ, maybe better than Dean, than anyone. She’s out there, living, dancing, laughing, and she’s so fucking young and really clever. Mr. Fuller’s favorite aspiring fosterling. I mean, look at her! She’s _living_ , Smith! Remember what that’s like? Being alive?

Dean swallows more beer, laughs because Shurley, uh, _Charles_ laughs. It’s a mere courtesy. He didn’t even fucking listen to the joke (or innuendo, or story) in the first place, and it isn’t important either because Charles immediately keeps on talking about something else, the next unimportant shit, and the next, and the _next_ , and Dean laughs whenever he feels like he is supposed to. The attention makes Charles’ fucking day, or week, or month; Dean has no idea, and he fucking doesn’t care a single bit.

Sam would have never taken him to a shithole like this. Wouldn’t have let him drink this watered-down piss.

With Sam, at least going out had been fun.

It’s the most satisfying thing of Dean’s past few weeks when the end of the night begins with Milton, puking all over her ugly, cheap shit of a costume. Fucking serves her right.

~ 

The presentation is over and the client is pleased. Everyone had applauded, even hard to please Mr. Wesson. Only fair, of course, considering the work Dean had invested here, but still. Dean couldn’t be any happier.

Overjoyed, he treats himself to a sugar cube in his coffee, even grabs something glazed and tender-looking to go along with it. Most people have helped themselves already and now are slowly retreating back into their offices, so Dean feels unobserved enough to take a big bite right then and there.

Mmmh. God. The sweet taste of success.

And then, he almost spits it right back out, almost doubles over and spills some of his coffee, because suddenly Sam is approaching and looks so fucking unfazed and calm but _looks right at Dean, right into his eyes._

Dean swallows despite the tightness in his throat and unfortunately doesn’t suffocate.

Sam settles in not far away from Dean, maybe three feet or less, and picks up a snack himself. Smiles at Dean as he raises it into the air between them.

“They’re good, right?”

Timidly, Dean nods.

They haven’t been this close in ages, not since...

Sam’s mouth opens, and he shoves half of the donut into it. Sam has a freakishly large mouth, so it doesn’t even look stupid or anything. Dean stares at the lick of glaze on the artistic curl of a lip, at the perfect shaving job not much higher. Sam is always very minuscule about his facial routine, but he never brags or complains about the efforts it takes to sustain it. Dean had always liked that about him. Admired, even.

A pat to Dean’s shoulder – gentle. Careful.

It’s quick, too quick to avoid or to duck away under, but the shock is harder than the touch itself. All Dean can do is try not to pee his pants. Or drop his coffee, or his jaw.

Hopes Sam can’t tell he’s suddenly exploding with sweat, with fear. Hopes that his face isn’t contorting, that he’s in control of it and himself.

“Have another,” hums Sam, still smiles, leans over the table with the sweets, just a little, not too close but unmistakably _closer to Dean_. “You’ve earned it.”

There are people around them, somewhere. They’re at work here, out in the open, and Sam sometimes has a good day and does stuff like that to his coworkers, can be an angel when you least expect it, so nobody would think this was odd. That this is a border being crossed, and that it means so, so much more compared to Sam doing it to anyone else in this entire building, in the entire goddamn world.

Sam is already gone by then, back to work, but Dean can feel the ghost of Sam’s hand on him, no barriers, no nothing. As if everything is lifted off of him by this sensation alone.

He holds his breath for a second to keep it with him for just another moment.

~ 

The yogurt is found easily enough – Dean remembers the packaging from where he had fished it out of the waste. He dumps the item into his cart and moves on.

Cheese: look for ‘full fat’. Ditch the ‘fit and vital’ sports drink section and go right for the Carb Hell; grab some pasta that looks nice, maybe is colored, y’know, just not, not wheat-y and already-digested beige-brown-blergh. Rice, white, ah, no, maybe better brown, uh... Okay, don’t lose it now, just. Just get on with it. Good. Good.

Dean makes it to the register without checking any labels, any nutrition charts, and the cashier probably has seen so much worse than Dean that he doesn’t look twice at his completely astonished face. A heap of groceries on the kitchen table is being piled up and Dean spends, maybe, forty minutes rounding it, staring and huffing at it from every angle, frowns and crosses his arms in front of his chest, but he stays strong. Proceeds to pull up the recipe he had researched earlier on his phone.

Dean cooks and he eats, and he finishes all of it.

~ 

Novak sighs, stirs his drink with a straw as if it was a cup of coffee and the straw a spoon. He always does that, no matter the beverage. Dean fucking hates it. “Maybe they just should have let Sandover annex us. Maybe things would be easier then. Wouldn’t they?”

Dean smiles dramatically wide as he chimes, “I would rather _kill_ myself,” and the entire table laughs more than politely, clinks glasses with Dean for his super hilarious ‘joke’. Novak frowns, obviously betrayed, but Dean joined in on the laughing already and flashes the guy his pretty, whiskey-numb mouth as if it was his middle finger.

Like Dean fucking cared about the feelings of any of them. As if anyone of them cared about _his_.

Dean winks at Masters who pouts while waving her empty glass, and she smirks back in gratitude. Dean lets his newly packed-on muscles bulge under his new suit as he gets up, takes his drink with him to the bar to get another for his ‘friend’. As soon as he’s turned his back to the crowd, his face falls flat, and he downs two mouthfuls from his tumbler. He isn’t drunk enough for this shit. By far.

A gesture to the bartender is all Dean needs to get her attention, even though it’s pretty packed. He had his hair done during his lunch break, had a massage before he came here, is still glowing from a fresh tanning session and facial from earlier this week. She’s cute, super cute, maybe Dean’s age, and she smiles differently than Masters when he winks at her. Dean laughs in half-pretend and half-real shyness, and when he looks back up, she’s mirroring it.

Still got it in you, Smith.

He orders two for himself and one for Masters, tips obviously generously and keeps ogling the bartender’s ass until she’s blocked from his view by a colleague, then two, then gets eaten up by the crowd. Dean remains where she left him: leaning forward on one forearm, drink in his hand, exceedingly desperate. Self-loathing.

Since he is everything but eager to return to his table, Dean lazily nurses his drink while he lets his gaze wander over the arrangement of bottles on the wall. If Sam was here, he would be able to slander every single brand, every single item. It would be hilarious. Would be fun. Everything Dean’s evening and company isn’t. But Dean isn’t missing it; he’s not _insane_.

They hadn’t even gone out that much ever since the contract. Maybe some time before that, even. It slowly had turned into nothing but these sick sex acts, day in, day out. Sam had changed everything they used to be while Dean had been too busy being played like a violin to notice. He sees that now. He’s smartened up. Not dumb. Whenever he gets to anything _close_ to being nostalgic, he allows himself to be fully aware of how his clothes are shifting over the scars. It’s a good reminder.

Ha. Sam most certainly hadn’t planned _that_. That Dean would claim it for himself, use it as he likes. His. His alone. His body, his will. _His_ life.

The longer he stands here by himself, the more it becomes obvious that there is no difference between being by himself or being with his coworkers. Here, he at least doesn’t have to smile as if he was trying to make somebody sell his soul, or, worse: pretend he is – fine.

Could go home. Just like that. Ditch them. Make up a bad excuse tomorrow; they’ll believe him. Most of the people back at the table are his subordinates and willing to lick his shoes at any given time if that will get them a busy bee sticker in their stupid records. Puppets, pretenders. All of them.

Sam, at least, always... No, Smith, what the hell, he _lied_ _nonstop_ ; get it _together_.

There is no revelation or betterment at the bottom of this glass. Or any other glass. Dean doesn’t expect to wake up one day and be – fine. He doesn’t. He’s a realist. He’s played this game way too long to still be dreaming.

Shit happens, and you deal, as good as you can, and you keep on living all the while. You don’t get to rest. Nobody does.

By now, maybe, Sam regrets what he did, or _has_ regretted and now has moved on, has accepted he fucked up. Would deserve it. Would treat him right. It _is_ his fault, after all. They could have been happy. It could have _worked_. They _had_ something! But Sam ruined it, all of it. And for what?

Had Dean been nothing more than another toy? Another way to pass the time, to fill a boring life? After all, Sam isn’t much better than Dean; just as stubborn, just as lonely. No friends. They always had nobody but each other. At least not that Dean knows, but Sam couldn’t possibly have had time left for anyone else – the two of them had practically been glued onto each other’s backs.

Maybe Sam misses Dean. Dean thinks he hadn’t been half as bad. Could have been better, maybe, more understanding, less lying, more open... but he hadn’t been _bad_. Sam should miss Dean. Should think of him all the time, get off on what Dean had let him do to him. Should sigh, close his eyes and tell himself, ‘Ah, remember when Dean...?’ Dean deserves that much, he thinks.

Dean has been staring at the distorted reflection of a mirror that’s placed behind the bar without noticing and still doesn’t notice it. But there is...

something.

Something familiar. Something that overcomes him, slowly, and grips him deep. Like a key being turned. A piece fitting itself into a puzzle. It makes him focus on the reflection.

Dean notices that it’s someone watching him and, naturally, instantaneously knows _who_ is watching him.

There is some heat underneath all that cold sweat or some cold sweat above all that heat. (Doesn’t really matter, does it?)

Dean keeps their eyes locked through the mirror, breathes through his nose. Could go back to the table, his coworkers, his safety. Could just leave this bar, go home. Go anywhere else but here. Could escape. Get away.

He could.

He lets his gaze drop when Sam starts moving, dissolves into the crowd. Dean lets his head hang, clenches his eyes shut, bites his lips. Wishes for... what, for what? There is nothing solid. All is water and fire and heartbeat.

Dean feels set back to that bar, that restaurant (or maybe earlier, in the car, that first evening?) where Sam had looked at him in that one specific way for the first time. Like he knew Dean. Like he was an extension of Dean – the missing half to him, _belonging_ to him.

How it had scared Dean, to be looked at like that. To be seen, truly _seen_ , noticed ( _understood_ ).

Knowing what being part of Sam means now hasn’t changed anything. Nothing. (It’s relieving and terrifying at the same time, somehow.)

Dean can feel him, knows he’s there, right behind him. He opens his eyes but doesn’t turn around to face him. Doesn’t have to – Sam knows Dean knows where he is.

It’s physically palpable when Sam drapes himself next to Dean, makes Dean flinch and his brain throb. Kick to his stomach. Dean knows without seeing that Sam isn’t looking at him right now but it’s still so so bad, so intense, just to be close to him like this. Dean imagines his entire body pulsing. Recoiling. He gathers some unknown strength to wipe his hand across his face, linger at his mouth. His palm comes away drenched with sweat. Dean folds it over his other one that still holds on to his drink.

Sam won’t say anything. Won’t make a move. Dean knows.

Sam doesn’t _have_ to.

Dean knows that as well, but that one _hurts_. Makes him frown. Makes him mouth the word _please_.

Please don’t.

Dean is flayed bare, head to toe. It’s just that nobody sees that; nobody but Sam. Sam, who is now looking at him, all serene and holy and welcoming, _forgiving_ , and fuck, that’s wrong, really really wrong.

Smith can’t keep from sinking or from sighing, or from slightly tossing his head. They both know he is defeated, and that the defeat dates back so much more earlier than now, here. If Dean was any less hypocritical, he would admit that he had longed to be this weak again ever since he had turned his back to Sam.

Dean doesn’t turn to see if someone from his table watches him leave because he doesn’t have to, because Sam’s here, and Sam has everything under control; always. Dean doesn’t finish his drink because he’s so sober no drug could lift him up right now, and he also doesn’t check if Sam is right behind him, because why in the world would he have to? He’s sure of it, with every fiber of his being.


	19. Chapter 19

It’s freezing outside; Dean can see his breath. As he waves down a cab, Sam steps close enough to let their shoulders meet, and Dean recoils from the touch with a gasp for air, a panicked flick of eyes. Knows his chest is fluttering, that his hands are shaking. Can feel Sam breathing just as hard as him, strung tight just like him, scared and unsure and completely grounded just like him (about to combust and implode, set on fire and rip apart). Dean gets into the cab first, slides all the way back into the door, and he can see Sam’s face long enough to find the wetness of his own eyes in the reflection of Sam’s before Sam’s too close, kissing him, and Dean shuts down right then.

One of them must have given the driver an address at some point Dean cannot recall, can only think in _Sam_ , in clutching Sam closer and closest, kissing all that lost time, all that loneliness away; claims and is claimed, tugs and hurts and _is_ being tugged at, _is_ being hurt. Dean remembers sobbing once, quietly, but remembers more how Sam’s scalp feels tearing underneath his fingernails, or the twin pressure on his jaw, the back of his neck underneath Sam’s crushing palms.

Dean slams the heel of his hand into what probably is the right button of this elevator and Sam is right there, his shadow, his air, and Dean is slammed against the elevator wall and heaved off his feet. His legs immediately curl around Sam’s waist just like his hands immediately go to claw at Sam’s face, and Dean hasn’t seen straight for the past ten minutes but that’s not important, not at all, as long as Sam is here and grinds their mouths together as if they were about to eat each other alive. Dean thinks he wouldn’t mind – eat, be eaten; wouldn’t matter, they’re the _same_.

Only in front of the door does he realize this is _his_ home. Surprised, really, that he isn’t surprised. Wants this. Wants Sam here, with him, gets the keys into their respective locks while Sam pulls and paws at him from behind with all of his weight resting on Dean’s back, crowding them in and up against the door to share air. They fall inside just when Sam has succeeded in yanking Dean’s slacks open. Dean’s knees buckle at the cold whip of air around the wet spot in the very front his exposed underwear, but Sam’s got him, got him, holds him so tight and so safe even when Dean turns around in his arms, basically head-butts the guy backwards so he can at least get the door closed behind them – Sam doesn’t let up, doesn’t let go, not for a second.

Dean is naked from the waist down halfway through the corridor, and Sam tears the buttons from his shirt’s wristcuffs as he knees down onto the bed, presses right up against already-there Dean who tries to shuck off his own shirt without taking his hands off Sam.

It shouldn’t be possible but Sam manages to have his hands everywhere at once – in Dean’s hair, on his back, down his chest and stomach, his ass, his thighs, his-

Dean’s eyes slam open just in time with Sam’s, and they both freeze except for the swaying their panting brings with it, except for the tender drag of palms and then only fingertips, following the scarred welts across Dean’s backside.

Sam looks turned inside out until Dean croaks, “Fuck me,” and then looks worse, blinks once and shudders down to what could be his bones when Dean repeats, rougher, and tugs Sam’s hair harsh enough to make the tendons in Sam’s neck stand out.

A shifting, then, of power and air and cores, and Sam, again, is nothing but heat, a well-practiced animal, and Dean has just enough air left to choke up against Sam’s mouth when two fingers slam up into him to the knuckle, dry and not, fucking painful and perfect. Sam makes him wail (onetwothreeonetwothreefucking _feel_ me) and then slaps his open mouth for that, clamps his palm right across it. Dean’s eyes roll backwards as he lets himself get pressed down, tries to bite but melts around Sam’s fingers that fuck his everything open, make him spread his legs and kick them out and scratch Sam’s back. Eyes all over Dean. Soaking in him, soaking him, drinking and refilling at the same time.

When Sam sits back to spit into his hand, Dean is quick enough to twist away under him and lunge for the nightstand, squeals when he’s hauled backwards on the hook of Sam’s fingers.

“Fuck, jus’, lemme-“

Sam angles and pumps just right for Dean to howl and curl, and reaches up and over him to get the lube in his place. His hand keeps moving while Sam kisses Dean’s neck, down his back, pours a handful over his cock and shoves into Dean without taking his fingers out first. Dean chokes, loud and dry, elbows for something, anything, but Sam walks him up on his knees, pulls his hips back until they’re pressed flush, vibrating, trembling. Not even a hair would fit in between them now, and Dean sobs into his beddings with his fingers interlacing with Sam’s around his own middle.

Unbearable to be taken apart like this (and worse to have missed it).

Dean can’t breathe, not really, not this filled to the brim, aware of every inch of skin being in contact with Sam, slipping and holding. They are breathing together and through the pain and further, even though neither of them has any sense of direction left.

It’s not fair to be able to feel like this, for someone and at all. That it is possible for Sam to invade him like that, tear him open like that.

“Fuck – me!”

Dean growls when Sam does as he is told, then yips when Sam keeps going and gets his face crushed into the mattress when he realizes Sam won’t _stop_.

It’s insane. It’s never been like this. Like Sam is taking him apart by the seams and putting him together just as quick, rebuilding, fusing Dean (with himself? with what?) into something new, erasing and reminding. The scars have long healed but Sam’s body slamming into them over and over and over makes Dean’s panic rise anew, grips him by something very basic and keeps him reeling, thrashing, until he’s suddenly on all fours and staring at how the bed is sent against the wall, hears the faint sound of its feet scraping over the floor, something that could be his voice or Sam’s but is so, so, so far away.

Dean’s back arches the harder Sam pulls his head backwards by his hair, and this is where Dean realizes he is about to come in three, two, one; and then fucking _freezes_ and hears Sam’s gut-punched groan.

Everything is so warm, tearing and overflowing, oh god, Dean is so fucking fucking scared, so happy and devastated and lost and found,

and Sam is right

here

with him.

Dean loses some time, opens his eyes and is still where he was when he closed them; on his knees, under Sam, getting fucked within an inch of his life but somehow still holding himself up. He tries to say something, anything, but nothing will come out but, “ _Sam_ ,” and maybe not even _that_ makes it. Something is brushing warmwethot over the swell of his ass, over where Sam’s hips and thighs are slamming Dean’s body forward, easy as nothing. Dean’s cock is still hard, somehow still dribbling over the already drenched sheets – Dean watches in awe, mouth hanging open.

God, fuck, it feels so fucking good.

Sam has one hand curled around Dean’s shoulder so he can pull him back onto his dick, can make the crash of their bodies even louder, harder; the other hand is secured around Dean’s hip, thumb stroking what it can reach of Dean’s scars.

Maybe if Dean hadn’t blacked out, hadn’t been so disoriented by the whirlwind of his orgasm, Sam’s wouldn’t hit him this unprepared, but maybe Sam is just as overwhelmed and quick as him after this long apart. Dean flinches at the last hard shove and the following growl, flattens his body out when Sam starts draping himself all over his back.

They sink down like that; Sam’s arms and legs circling Dean’s, holding him tight while Sam fills him deep. Breathing is not exactly possible, but it’s enough for Dean. His eyes slip shut under Sam’s panting, his wet mouth wide and desperate around Dean’s nape, shoulder, neck; kisses and licks and roams, doesn’t hurt.

Dean sighs. He doesn’t have to move or think, or pretend. Here, he can simply _be_. Even though impressive, Sam’s weight is… calming. Holding Dean down. Shielding him.

Dean nuzzles a forearm he kisses not much later. Sam’s hips are rolling in softest movements, like a massage, making Dean feel every inch of him still buried in him, the slickness Sam put there. The motion drives quiet groans from Dean; not because it hurts, but simply from his chest being milked out under Sam.

Everything is calm after a while. Dean can feel their skin sticking together as Sam starts lifting off of him, and Dean stirs a little, unwilling to give this up just yet. Sam interlaces their fingers though, lets Dean kiss his knuckles, so Dean lets him slide down. Sam marks his way with pressed kisses along Dean’s spine.

“I missed you… so… much…”

Small and tired. Almost too quiet to hear; kissed into Dean’s skin.

Dean smiles against Sam’s hand.

Sam mouths over the scars lying across Dean’s buttocks. “Still hurts?”

Dean breathes, “No.”

Because Dean is not dumb, he knew all along Sam would not apologize. The best option seemed for him to just keep quiet about it. So, maybe, the soft brush of lips over the tender welts – and it’s in fact so light, so gentle, that it cannot be described as ‘kissing’ – is Sam’s way of trying to give something neither of them had thought possible.

Dean gathers his lover in his arms so they can wrap themselves into the bedding together. Dean runs his fingers through Sam’s hair and dwells in the warm breath against his breastbone.

“Missed you too,” Dean whispers.

“I know.”

Dean mouths at Sam’s forehead. They shuffle closer together.

“It can’t go on like it did. I can’t do it.”

“Tell me what you need,” hums Sam, “and we’ll make it work.”

“No more contract.”

“We’ll burn it.”

“No more forcing me to eat.”

“Yes.”

“You will never. Again. Say anything… or _refer_ to anything regarding Matt, Sam. Anything at all.” Sam’s hair smells better than ever. The scent is addicting, really. “Or the fraternity. Or anything of that matter. We clear?”

“Crystal.” A kiss to Dean’s sternum. “Anything else?”

“No more caning. Or whipping. Or anything, that’s… permanent.”

“Pet, it was an _acc_ ident.”

“I don’t _care_.” Dean blinks, has his eyes glued to where he scratches through Sam’s hairline. He frowns; Sam doesn’t. “And I won’t go into that room again. I won’t.”

“Not ever?”

“You should have thought about that earlier.”

Sam sighs, but otherwise doesn’t talk back. The rush of power fizzing through Dean is making his face flush red-hot. Feels real fucking good.

“Someone surely prepared for this.”

“Had a lot of time to think.”

“I see.” Sam’s mouth places kisses up Dean’s chest.

“And, something else is, that...” Dean pulls his knees a little higher, pulls Sam a little closer. Speaks a little softer. “Let’s... let’s go out more. Like we used to. Y’know? Just us.”

Sam nods against his neck. “All the wining and dining. Of course.”

“It doesn’t have to be expensive, just. I miss it? Jus’ talking. Hanging out. Having a drink. Hating everyone else together.”

“Mmmh. Yes,” chuckles Sam. “Sounds real good. We should do that.”

“Maybe not now though.”

Sam lets his teeth graze along Dean’s collarbone before he kisses it. “No, not now.”

Not really level yet, but Sam manages to lock eyes with Dean by looking up all wide trough the dark fan of his lashes. Dean’s eyes are hooded, relaxed.

“You know that there are always two sides to a deal, Dean.”

“Yes,” comes the answer.

“You know I’ll ask for things you won’t necessarily... like.”

Dean blinks, slowly. “… Yes.”

“But you want to do this, right? Us?”

“Yes.”

“You’re confident we’ll make it.”

“Yes.”

“... Are you still mad at me?”

“Of course I’m still mad at you. That’s not the point.”

Dean scoots away some so he can face Sam more easily, openly. He _does_ want this to work. He is confident. Sam needs to know that, understand that; understand _Dean_.

Dean has thought about this, a lot. About Sam, and then Sam and him. There _are_ ways to do this. Ways they both can live with and yeah, be _happy_ with. They just have to try harder. Dean has to try harder.

The plate is clean now. They’ve hurt each other – and now they’re together again. If they’ve come this far, the rest should be comparably easy to figure out. Right?

“I’m here. You’re here. That’s what I want.”

Sam eyes him almost curiously. He doesn’t smile, and neither does Dean.

Sam says, “How much TV did you watch, exactly?” and Dean throws his head back as he groans, “Ugh, please don’t make me answer that.”

~ 

Sam is waiting for him at the kitchen table when Dean emerges from the shower. His eyes are immediately there, waiting, so Dean picks up on it, lets himself get stopped by the sheer power of it once he has reached the middle of the room.

“Get your phone and call in sick.”

Dean blinks. Feels his muscles already reacting, but holds back. Stays in control. When Sam doesn’t avert his gaze, Dean asks, “For how long?”

Sam surveys him as if in thought.

“Three days.”

Dean calls in sick for three days and then returns to his kitchenette and Sam, who has taken over the newspaper. A small plate with a few crumbs on it tell Dean he had found his way through breakfast. “You didn’t make any for me,” he points out, and Sam turns his attention to him for that, blinks innocently.

“Well, you said not to make you eat, so I’m not.”

Dean smiles.

Sam mirrors that. “Was that good?”

“ _Very_ good.” He turns to put together a bowl of cereal for himself. The newspaper rustles behind him eventually and a chair moves, too, but Dean stays put. And why wouldn’t he?

Sam’s arms circle Dean’s waist, tug them chest to back. Dean is pretty sure Sam is smiling right now, right where he’s put his cheek on Dean’s shoulder. Milk pours over the nut-cereal-mix with tiny chocolate crumbs.

“There are _eggs_ in your fridge,” whispers Sam.

Dean snickers. Yeah. He’s proud of that one, too.

~ 

“This is position number one.”

Dean looks up at him from where he is kneeling on the ground.

“When I say ‘assume position number one’, this is how you will position yourself. Eyes down.” Dean drops his gaze (to the rug; his knees). “Yes. That’s better.”

Dean gets a pat on his head for his obedience. The collar sits tight enough to squeeze around his throat when he swallows.

“I will put this on you now.”

Dean eyes the blindfold in Sam’s outstretched hand. He wills the persistent tension away and nods.

Sam kneels down to do as he said. “That was not a question, pet,” he murmurs.

Dean sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and keeps quiet. Concentrates on the grip of his fingers around his own wrists behind his back. Accepts the blindness.

He trusts. Or, well, _wants_ to trust. They’ll get there. Sam said they’ll get there again. Sam said it’s normal to be nervous after what happened. Sam promised they’d take it slow.

It is... nice, up to here. Strange, yes, to be back at this place, to feel the familiar rug under his bare skin again.

“Dean?”

“Yes?”

“I just asked you a question.”

“O... _oh_.”

“Are we alright in there, Dean?”

“Yes; yes. I’m sorry. I’m listening.”

“I asked if you can tell me how many times you got off while we weren’t together.”

Dean thinks, draws a breath to speak, but then falters again.

“Can’t you remember?”

“Uhm, no. I mean, I can, but.”

“What is it that holds you back right now?”

Dean huffs a big breath, rearranges his slippery grip on his wrists. “I’m. Kinda scared that you’ll make... fun of me.”

“You’re _scared_?”

“Uh, m-may, no, jus’, maybe, _worried_? Not _scared_?”

“You said _scared_.”

“I didn’t mean-“

“You did, and that’s not good. We can’t have that. There is no need for you to be scared of me. You are free to use your safe word. What is your safe word, Dean?”

“Red,” croaks Dean, and the blindfold immediately leaves his eyes, reveals Sam crouching in front of him, eyeing him intensely, cupping his face with both hands. Dean exhales quick but flatly.

“See? When you want me to stop, say it, and we’ll stop.”

Dean’s nod comes hesitantly, but it comes.

“I know that what happened will be hard to make up for,” hums Sam. His thumbs drag across Dean’s cheeks, manipulate his mouth into the smallest pout. “I know. But-“ Oh, here it comes... “-it wouldn’t have come this far, and you know that, if you would have been honest with me.”

Of course. It’s all Dean’s fault. Naturally.

Dean frowns and lisps, “Yes, sir.”

“I don’t like liars, Dean.”

“I know, sir.”

“... Dean, we talked about this. You don’t have to address me like that anymore if you don’t want to.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sam cocks his eyebrow. “If you think this is gonna get you out of the matter at hand, you’re clearly overestimating my self-indulgence.” The blindfold is back. “So, what do you say? Once per week, maybe? That’d make eight in total.”

“Uh... once.”

“Once a week, so, eight times?”

“No, I mean. Once.” Silence. “Like. One _time_.”

More silence.

Dean shifts his weight a bit. His legs start to become tired. “Jus’, uhm. I didn’t really feel like it, y’know? After what had... happened.”

“So I assume there was nobody else either?”

“What? _No_ , what the.” Dean shakes his head, brows knitted tight. “No,” he repeats, then, carefully, “Did _you_...?”

The immediate reply is a calm, “Of course not.”

Ah. He shouldn’t be relieved about something this natural, but, well, here he is, sighing.

“I did, however, take care of it myself. Like, twice a day. On average. In case you were curious.”

“Uh... Good for you? Uhm.” Dean gives a faint laugh. “Sorry. Sorry. This feels weird.”

“You don’t have to do anything but answer my questions and do what I say. Okay? Now relax. Get back into your proper position.”

“Okay.”

“Take a deep breath.” Dean complies. “There we go. Very good.” Something metallic jingles not too far away. Dean wills himself to keep his head down, not jerk into the direction he heard the sound coming from. “So – once. Well, can’t say I’m not surprised, but you know how I feel about your self-applied little celibacies.”

Dean gasps at a touch to his nipple.

“Was there a reason? A thought, maybe, which blocked you?”

Sam keeps fondling Dean’s chest. Dean licks his lip before he speaks. “There was no... appeal in it.”

“No?”

“No.” Sam tugs, and Dean shivers. “It felt boring.”

“Does this feel boring too?”

Dean shakes his head, smiles through the teasing, the rolling pinch of Sam’s fingers.

“No, right? Feels nice, doesn’t it?” God, he can hear Sam smiling. There’s the clinking again. “You’re an easy tell, really,” chuckles Sam. Dean grinds up into the hand that closes around his increasingly interested cock, but it withdraws just as quick as it came.

His sigh turns into a gasp as something sharp and mean bites down on his nipple, then twitches backwards when it’s done to the other one as well; too fast to escape from it.

He has his hands free. He could reach whatever the hell it is that stings so bad, could safe word out of this.

Dean fans his fingers wider around his wrist before clutching tight again.

Sam tells him, “Looks good on you,” and somehow pulls on both at once, licks into Dean’s falling open mouth.

Dean groans. He hates that he loves to be touched like this and that he lets it happen. This feeling of not knowing his own needs as well as Sam seems to know them. Sam is able to play him in ways Dean didn’t even fucking knew existed.

It’s as scary as it is fascinating. Addicting.

The gentle tone of Sam’s voice in combination with the constant tugging on his nipples wills Dean into an honest nod when he is asked if the cuffs would be okay. “They’re padded,” explains Sam, and Dean shivers at the fur lining of what Sam fastens his wrists with. Not iron, and not harsh at all. This rush once he’s got his hands tied behind his back is another of those inexplicable things. To know that he’s vulnerable and all the while not knowing what is going to happen. After the cane incident, the thrill of danger of course is stronger, but it nevertheless gets his cock hard. Which it can. Sam promised to leave the cage be, and Dean had makeshift-agreed to the generous ‘for now’. Obviously, since Sam had gotten what he had wanted – Dean, coming without having his cock touched – he was willing to grant Dean this reward. Which he had stressed it is: a reward.

Sam’s hand on his junk makes Dean’s body sag in on itself. As bland as it had been to masturbate, Sam’s touch is now turning him completely wild. That’s a long way from normal or healthy, sure, but if it keeps feeling this fucking good, then-

Dean hisses, jerks, and Sam mutters, “There we go,” while tugging on Dean’s chest again in a now continuous rhythm. It makes Dean bend over, rakes goosebumps up his arms, but whatever has been put on him between his legs fucking-

Spikes snap into a tighter ring where they are pulling around his cock and balls, and Dean cries out. He immediately curls forward in an attempt to protect himself, tries to gasp for ‘stop’, but then his nipples are pulled on harder than before and when he wants to get back up it makes the spikes bite into him even worse.

“S-Sam!?”

A mean little click, a tug on his collar, and Dean stills. Dean shivers with the exertion of curling in even lower, bending his back like that. Pants through his nose, silently, before it’s not enough anymore and he has to drop his mouth open, too. Flexes his arms, once, feels the fur shifting around his unharmed wrists.

It’s one thing, being held by the balls by someone; even getting them teased and crushed by sharp, invading objects.

It’s another when Wesson is the one free to either make it better or way, way worse.

There’s a tug, and it’s obvious how little stress Sam puts on the network he just created between Dean’s throat, nipples and genitals – nevertheless, the consequences to the tension of the system are intense. Dean whimpers, can’t form words until Sam makes him stand up with constant pull on what could be a delicate chain.

“Here, kitty kitty kitty.”

“MotherFUCKER!”

Dean is drenched in sweat and starts crying when he can make out Sam’s repressed chuckles, cries for real when Sam yanks, hard, almost sending Dean to the ground with how his knees buckle under the pain.

“You fucking ASSHOLE! I KNEW this would happen, fucking KNEW IT; god, FUCK, SAM!”

Sam ignores him completely. He leads Dean around on his makeshift choke chain, and by the time they stop, Dean is too exhausted from both yelling and his overall posture to do much about getting the rubber ball gag strapped between his teeth.

There’s the sound of a key turning inside a lock.

Panic kicks in big time.

“I know you want to control this. You think that’s what you need. It’s not, though, trust me. What you need is the exact opposite. Just let go.”

The gag muffles Dean’s hysterical begging, but it’s obvious that Sam doesn’t care to listen to it anyway. Sam pats his cheek and the mess of spit, tears and snot makes it clap louder than it feels, and every inch of panic and humiliation adds its sting to the already-there pain of ‘you should have known’.

At the first hint of being led inside, Dean’s thrashing earns him a pull that sends him to his knees for good. Bent over, he sobs, unable to move with how his muscles are quivering. Even lifting his head earns him tension on the chain and thus strangulates his balls.

Not as strong as you thought you’d be, huh?

Look at you. He has you right where he wants you.

You didn’t learn anything.

“I know. You’re upset. This is breaking one of your adorable new ‘rules’, after all. But it is about time you understand that it is not your job to have control – it’s _mine_. So you will go into this room now, Dean. You will. Because I tell you to. Because I make you.”

At least he tries to pay attention on not stressing the chain when he helps Dean to his feet once more. It’s obviously straining. Dean is unwilling _and_ slippery with sweat; hard to maneuver. Sam is insistent, though, and Dean is hyperventilating at the first hint of dreaded carpet under his foot. Sam kisses whispers into his ear that supposedly should be calming, but of course it’s not helping in any way. Like feeding salt to a thirsty man.

The spikes finally, finally disappear, but not before Dean has been heaved onto what feels and sounds like a wooden rack, until he has been fastened to it with tight leather straps around his ankles, thighs, middle. Collar and wristcuffs are secured to waiting hooks.

Dean’s head lies supported, turned to the side so his neck can’t tire out. It’s easier to breathe like this compared to hanging face-down, maybe, and Dean would be thankful if his mind could go anywhere beyond cursing himself, cursing Sam. Every huffed-around-rubber breath spills more saliva, sends it out of the side of his mouth and down his chin.

The silence is no good sign. It never is. In this room, naked, bound to hover on all fours – anything could happen.

Despite the sweet touch, Dean jumps in his restraints when Sam rubs his back in the same manner one would apply to a scared animal. Dean tries the begging again, desperate for Sam’s mercy, any sign of it. He can feel Sam’s fingers sliding through the pooling sweat in the valley of his spine.

“Oh Dean.”

Sam sighs like a truly regretful man.

“I can’t believe you let me wait for eight weeks.”

Swallowing is impossible, but Dean tries nevertheless. His throat clicks pathetically as a result.

Sam’s hand keeps moving, then is joined by the second. Immobile as he is, Dean can choose between shuddering and mumbling or nothing or both. Does all of it a little more when Sam runs his palms over the scars, all the way from the early swell of Dean’s buttocks (the ones further up are hidden underneath the leather strap keeping his hips tilted up) down the back of his thighs. Sam repeats it a few times, maybe fascinated by the view or sensation or both.

Breath hits Dean’s skin before Sam’s mouth touches it; then his tongue. He kisses along the welts, all slow and tender; like love.

“I’m sure you understand that I cannot let your recent behavior pass without consequences.”

Distressed whimpers. Dean’s eyes sting from the salt in his tears (you should have known you should have known you should have known you should have known). He is disorientated at this point; practically floating without much sense of gravity on this rack which is effortlessly carrying all his weight. Naturally, Sam withdrawing followed by the sound of something heavy being moved over to him stirs Dean’s terror back into blankness.

“Don’t worry. What’s about to happen is not going to hurt.”

Dean can’t listen, can’t comprehend, understand. All is stolen breath and spasming flesh and wondering about Sam’s intentions, about the lesson he wants Dean to get out of this. Is there one? Maybe there isn’t one at all. Would make sense too, just like nothing does make sense right now; doesn’t matter, either.

Sam’s finger nudges at his ass, slick and warm, and Dean freezes. Caught between not wanting to hurt more than necessary but not having any control over his muscles whatsoever, Dean decides to concentrate on his breathing instead. Sam forces a second one in soon enough, crooks both and rubs at his prostate until his body is forced into relaxation, letting him in. The fingers withdraw then, and something else takes their place instead.

Cool, now. Hard. Pushing at Dean until his rim gives just enough to let it slip in.

“I wouldn’t want you to see this here as ‘punishment’, really. I’d rather call it... restorative justice.”

A chain reaction – something clicking, then buzzing, and then the object shoves itself deeper into Dean’s ass. A toy, he realizes, some kind of...

And then it retreats. And comes back. Pushes into him, deep, all the way.

Dean can’t move – has absolutely no control. Can’t push back on it, can’t move away from it. Can just stay where he is and take it.

A slow, teasing rhythm. Unyielding and steady. Sam was right: it doesn’t hurt. But it’s not too pleasant either. Cold. Impersonal. Sends his cock twitching nevertheless. Dean flushes warm-wet and whimpers, again, testingly. Tries to wriggle in his bindings, but to no avail.

There is Sam’s hand again; warm and flat, running up the back of Dean’s thigh, up his ass. Cherishing. Mocking.

“You let me wait, so I’ll let you wait.”

The machine revs up audibly, and Dean tries hard to stifle his moans because he hears Sam distancing himself, and fuck, no, nonono-

From what sounds like miles and a finger’s width away, the door is pulled shut.

Despite being horrifyingly aware of the fact that nobody can nor will hear him scream, Dean draws a deep, deep breath.


	20. Chapter 20

Should be sad how relieving the by now familiar softness of the living room rug is, but Dean doesn’t allow himself to think that far, not now. His eyes fall closed. He’s too tired to make the effort of catching a glimpse of the kitchen clock.

Sam’s foot nudges at his shoulder, rolls him on his back; to look up. It’s bright without the blindfold. Dean’s throat clicks and Sam sits down on the couch, maybe three feet away. Looks down on him as if he still had him underneath his foot. Has, in a way. Dean is aware.

Zipper-slick.

“Ass or mouth?”

It’s obvious that Sam won’t move or help him, so Dean, with his arms bound behind his back, struggles to get up on his own. Kinda hard, but that’s the point, isn’t it?

Sam wants him to work for this.

“Mouth.”

Hard-to-place smirk from Sam who strokes himself, legs wide open (Dean’s _c’mere boy, kitty kitty kitty_ ). “Of course,” he says, like Dean’s answer is a disappointment.

Still unsure if someone like Sam even is capable of such an emotion, Dean would say—if he didn’t know any better—that Sam actually pours _love_ into his gaze right now, into the gentle touch to Dean’s head once he crawled close enough on his knees and is a breath away from kissing Sam’s cock.

Dean aches. He wants to sleep. Wants to curl his arms around Sam and say he’s sorry, please just stop, we can discuss this like normal people. But this is a slippery slope. This is Sam’s game. Dean is not here to call the shots.

“Good boy.”

Sam had been hard ever since he got Dean off the machine and stayed like that through the entire waxing session. Sam sighs like he can feel how much Dean’s throat has recovered, like he just realized he can split him open all over again. The hand on the back of Dean’s head prevents him from backing up. All or nothing. Take it or leave it...no.

_Choke on it._

“You can do it,” Dean hears, and no, he can’t, really, but Sam holds him and there is no other way and no other thing except for letting go. “Just another moment.”

A moment. Many moments. Dean’s body convulses, and his face and lungs burn.

“Almost. Almost.”

Like a prayer. A whisper, airy, and thus so very powerful.

He’s pulled off by his hair and gulps for air, coughs up his own spit; Sam uses his free hand to slap his throat-warm cock into Dean’s cheek.

“Now don’t get messy.”

Freeing, to have Sam’s thumb wiping away the lines of tears. They were itching, irritating. Dean glares nevertheless, pouts his mouth over the crown of Sam’s cock and gets it pressed past his teeth.

“That’s it.”

Sam sinks deeper into the couch until he’s practically lying on his back. Whenever Dean checks on him, Sam’s eyes are right there, together with a faint smile, a thumb on Dean’s straining lips or a hand petting his head, pulling him in; all at once.

Welcome home.

~ 

The oven display spells 2:08 PM. The tiles are cold. Sam must have turned off the underfloor heating.

The depth Sam’s fingers push the fried chicken to varies (Dean is pretty sure Sam knows how to Heimlich). Dean chews and Sam waits, patiently, eats from a fork himself.

Sam’s fingers—warm and greasy, starting to get pruney after spending so much time in Dean’s mouth and throat. Sam’s expression—watching, focused, deep.

Dean’s arms hurt like hell. He should speak up, feels the urge to do so growing by the minute. The fatty food makes him sleepy, heavy; whiney. He huffs, sweats. He can’t see how much chicken is left. He was full ten handfuls ago.

“Nuh-uh. Shhh.” It’s like Sam has a built-in monitor for Dean: prod here, cut there. Dean struggles, opens his mouth again, and Sam back-hands him for it. Offers more chicken when Dean’s eyes are back, less glaring, more begging.

Sam’s fingers can scissor wide in Dean’s mouth, can make his cheeks bulge out beyond the point of sexy. Must look ludicrous; makes Dean’s drool ooze out and down his chin. But he won’t break. He can be good. He learned his lesson.

This is a test. All of it is. And he will pass it.

The food stops coming and Dean remains where he is, eyes up and on Sam, always, because Sam told him to do it just like he told him to kneel and wait, to eat. The tug on the leash is sudden and chokes Dean, but he’s quick with his brain and manages to get to his feet so Sam can lead him—wherever. Dean sighs when they walk straight past The Room, only starts hesitating when Sam eases him onto the bed, on his back and painful arms. Thinks of whimpering when Sam fits the ball gag between his teeth, and then it’s too late, and he knows it.

“Shhh shhh shhh.”

Sam keeps him pinned so easily that it should be embarrassing, but the pain distracts from the humiliation; especially Sam’s fingers shoving into him dry. Dean shudders. Still feels loose. Is sore as hell, too. Dean is scared and the only thing keeping him from panic right now is the complete lack of concern on Sam’s blissed-out face.

Sam fucks him with a plug first; holds his legs up and away by his ankles, single-handedly. For every too loud of a whimper, there’s a slap to his bare-waxed balls that makes him tense up so much more, so Dean is careful with his breathing, tries to time it right, but Sam’s rhythm is unsteady like he _wants_ Dean to fail. Dean is crying even before he’s flipped to his stomach, before Sam forces Dean’s knees together with his own and mounts him like that—all weight, all power. Despite being sloppy with lube, Dean’s ass hurts. Thank god Sam allows him to be loud now.

Daylight is fading when Dean comes to. He notices his arms are free but the gag is still there. He groans as he bends his elbows, rolls over to lie on his side. Sam is right there, reading, glasses and all. He is stark naked. (Dean can’t remember seeing him undress. How long was he asleep?)

“Your arms will be fine.”

Dean glares, rubs his elbows.

“Now don’t give me that look.”

Sam keeps reading.

Music is playing in the living room. It’s quiet except for that and the turning of book pages. Eventually, Dean can’t take it anymore and scoots closer. When Sam doesn’t interfere, he dares to close in completely, puts his cheek and arm on Sam’s chest. Waits. No punishment comes. Dean sighs and buries his face in skin, closes his eyes. Sam pets his hair not much later.

This, this.

Dean sighs unabashedly.

~ 

“Fuck me like you wanted that bartender to fuck you.”

Dean flushes hot. What is there to deny though? He picks up his pace and his eyes fall closed.

“Yeah? That urgent? Poor pet.” Hands roam up from Dean’s knees to his sides, his ribs, shoulders; back down. Dean keeps on riding. “Do you miss pussy?”

“Hmpfmmmfmg—”

“Shhh. Yes or no?”

Dean shakes his head but grabs for Sam’s wrist. Sam seems curious enough to let him do what he wants, so Dean places his hand on his dick, forms a fist to pump into.

“Miss having this played with? ’S that it?”

Dean nods through his hitching breath. Sam strokes him under the cup of Dean’s own palm that withdraws once he’s remotely sure Sam won’t drop his efforts immediately.

“But you’re dried up right now, aren’t you.” Flick of thumb over barely-wet slit. Dean shudders, nods, sweats. “Maybe tomorrow, if you’re good. Yeah? How about that?”

More nodding. Just when he starts to get sore, Sam withdraws his hand, slides it over Dean’s legs instead, cups his ass. Feels over the scars.

~ 

He can handle it better now. Things are clearer than before the break-up. Sam had made compromises. Things will be different.

“Remember. No coming.”

Dean watches the toy slip over his cock; can see his flesh shining through, actually.

He’s shaking. This is impossible.

It’s all too fast. It’s been too long since he has been stimulated like this. Dean tenses his legs, lets his head loll back some more, tries to keep the tingling at bay.

If Sam keeps it up, Dean will shoot in less than another minute.

“Feels good, right?” Sam is squatting next to him. The veins in his forearm are bulging out under his skin. “This is the one I used while you were gone.”

Dean gets his nose pinched shut once he starts unloading, can barely breathe around the gag and especially not while Sam keeps moving the toy on his quickly over-stimulated cock. The squelching-sucking noises echo too loud in his ears which should be deaf with pain at this point. Again, Dean’s body betrays him.

The route is clear. Dean doesn’t exactly struggle. Maybe wouldn’t even if he had any energy left. He figured that nothing he has done so far outweighs the Matt issue. He won’t get punished like that for something less. Sam is strangely fair with that.

Soft beginnings of hyperventilation, blindfold and gag and getting strapped to the horrible bench. Only when earplugs come into play, Dean vocalizes his distress. Sam actually takes the gag off then, but the headphones are secured over his ears. With the soft but loud jazz music playing, Dean can’t even hear his own mindless babbling.

Sam kisses him on the mouth and then he’s gone.

Dean’s chest starts heaving.

No. Not this again. Everything but this. Alone with himself.

Something pokes at his dick, effectively startling him, pulling him somewhat ‘back’. The object teases around his glans, more tickling than anything else. Dean huffs in confusion. Then there are fingers, holding him in place by a gentle squeeze. The object continues to prod at him.

As it tries to push in, the rounded tip becomes clear, and Dean gasps, jolts, would squirm if he could.

Says things like _no no no, don’t, don’t do that_ , but the object comes back slicker, maybe lubed, and slides in past the resistance.

It’s the worst and the weirdest sensation Dean has ever felt, so absolutely invasive and uncomfortable and painful and he can’t make it stop as it continues to fill his urethra down the wrong way, deeper and deeper until it feels like it’s shoved down his bladder. And there, it stops.

Dean gets kissed again, all sloppy and with one warm hand on his cheek to soothe him. (Maybe he did good.)

“Sam, Sam, take it out, take it out, _please_.”

A thumb keeps the rod inside; the other four fingers caress the underside of Dean’s limp cock. Something is slipped over the head, gets secured there. When the thumb withdraws, the rod is kept in even though Dean pushes, clenches.

He’s breathless. Tries to wriggle to make it fall out, yes, but the bondage keeps him caught in this predicament.

Punishment, Smith thinks.

The touch of the toy against his asshole hits him unprepared. He shudders around the sudden intrusion; it’s rooted within seconds and doesn’t waste time before picking up a slow but steady rhythm, pushing so deep up into Smith’s intestines he swears he can feel it nudging against the other side of the rod.

Which, as he realizes in a blaze of horror, is totally what is happening.

“Sam. Sam.”

He tries to escape the coming kisses, wants to plead for forgiveness instead, wants to explain and make Sam stop—Smith is a good talker, it’s his _job_ , he’s been in the debate club during high school—but all Sam has to do is put one hand on him, hold him down, eat at his mouth.

Dean’s body tightens all over. The sensations are insane.

The discomfort of getting an erection with something stuck inside of his penis is overwhelming.

“Suh—Sam, c’mon, please—”

No shaking gets him to avoid the gag. He pushes his tongue against it, wants it out, wants it _all_ out, now. The machine behind him speeds up, fucks him to complete hardness within minutes. Fingers dance over his cock then, squeeze and seem to test the give. It does feel more solid with the rod inside, must, Dean can feel it himself, he—

There’s tightness and lube and then the toy from earlier is back, sheaths his entire cock. The pull-back feels like being sucked off, feels like the best, the most.

Dean whines. His ass spasms around the machine just like his urethra spasms around the rod. It burns, in a bad way, a way that makes him ache too deep, wakes the inmost instincts to pull away and get rid of. But he’s stuck. He’s caught. Sam wants him here—he’ll keep Dean here for as long as he wants.

Smith realizes that even if he _would_ come, his load would have nowhere to go. Will it just. He’s plugged, so it won’t. It’ll just.

His next exhale is deep and wet. Dean sinks a little lower, allows his body to become heavier. Flexes his fingers and toes; they’re not cold. The room is heated perfectly fine.

The machine fucks him a little faster. Goosebumps; a groan, closed eyes.

Just wait it out.

~ 

The Dean Smith in the mirror looks a little tired, could use another coffee. He eyes the job he did on his hair, fastens his tie. He uses Sam’s nail file to take care of that uneven spot he’ll have Nathalie look after (has to make an appointment for tomorrow or the day after that, hopes they’re free).

A glass of freshly squeezed orange juice waits for him in the kitchen, just like a plate of scrambled eggs and toast. His boyfriend kisses him sweet, touches one huge hand to the close to perfectly shaved left of Dean’s face. Dean doesn’t have to be told to eat up.

The office is Monday-busy. Dean almost rushes past Rhonda who looks at him with a hint of concern, seems to check on him and his reactions to what she reminds him of, his answers to her polite questions (how was your weekend sir, did you enjoy your vacation sir). Once she’s satisfied and loses some tightness around her mouth, Dean knows he’s safe and dives into his work.

Rather than one big project, there are several small tasks set for today. Very convenient. Dean prefers it this way. He always has to keep moving, has to stay present and laser-focused.

Novak touches his arm during lunch, which startles Smith.

Novak looks worried, so Dean smiles, answers the obligatory, “Are you alright?” with a mocking blurt of breath, a comic apology he forgets about the moment it left his mouth.

No, really, things are fine, things are good.

~ 

_“You never call anymore.”_

“Maybe ’cause I’m working for a multi-billion company now.”

 _“You’ve always been a workaholic.”_ Jo sounds like she’s frowning. _“But this is different. I haven’t even seen your new place yet.”_

“Well, nobody’s stopping you?”

_“You know, people usually invite other people over? So it doesn’t look like said people are breaking into said other people’s homes?”_

“Just say it.” Dean falls back into the couch with a groan, bends over to loosen his shoelaces. “Say: Dean, my gosh, you’re one pathetic excuse for a brother.”

 _“And for an uncle,”_ she adds, and the bitterness is almost untainted right there.

Ouch. “Yeah, that too. How’s she doing? You guys holding up alright?”

 _“Things are alright.”_ She sighs while she says that. _“Victor is working a lot, so. We don’t really see each other that often right now.”_

“That sucks.”

_“Kinda. But I have her. I can’t complain, y’know.”_

“I bet he’d be with you two if he could.”

 _“I know. I know.”_ Some silence. Dean uses it to slip out of his suit jacket, turns on the TV. Then, quietly, _“Seriously though—I’d like to come over. For a weekend, maybe. Bring Naomi, too. Would that be okay?”_

Channel surfing. Nothing’s on. “I work through most of my weekends lately, to be honest. But if you don’t mind me slipping out for a few hours, then—”

_“No. No, it’s okay. I understand.”_

The call ends not much later. Dean falls asleep on the couch.

~ 

Tuesday night. Reciprocated hand jobs in the backseat of a limousine; Champagne. Dean’s boyfriend smells like Gucci and kisses like spent-too-much money.

Things are good. Things are really fucking good now.

The nightlife is overwhelming, the choices are endless. Dean is not ashamed to leave it all to Sam. He’s got the better taste for this kind of stuff anyway. They go for sushi and sake, for whiskey and ice. Dean is drunk a lot and if Lisa knew she’d be disappointed in him. But Lisa is in the past, someone Dean doesn’t think about anymore (like it seems to be with everyone but Sam).

“I want to meet your friends sometime.”

Feels slurred but obvious against Sam’s ear, always-halfway-there line of cock under Dean’s fingers, flirting with the head Dean figures must be dampening up at this rate. Sam likes to be teased maybe as much as he likes to tease. Maybe it has to do with them still sitting in this bar, too comfortable and fed to take it somewhere else for now.

Sam’s sigh sounds suspiciously much like any cat’s purr. “What friends?”

“Y’know,” widening smile, “your friends. College buddies.”

“You mean exes? It’s not like I took names, sweetheart.”

“No, Jesus. No, like. Friends-friends. Buddies. Pals.”

Sam scoffs. “Why would you want that?”

“’Cause it’s fun? I’d like to meet them. Have them tell stories about you.”

“I can tell you all the stories you want.”

“Not the same.” A barely held back groan; legs closer together. “Tone it down, I’m about to start humping your goddamn leg.”

Sam smirks like trouble, keeps his hand where it is. Fucker. “Do you have friends?”

“Huh?”

“Do _you_ have friends.” The world is minimized to their booth, the little corner in the huge bar. The music is loud but seems distant here, with Sam murmuring against Dean’s temple, neck, ear. “Maybe we can meet them first. So I know what you expect of me.”

“Sam, there’s nothing to _expect_. It’s what couples _do_. Getting to know each other.”

“But I only want to be the best for you.”

“You mean ‘do’. _Do_ the best.”

Huff of air. “Sure. Yeah, what’d I say?”

Laughter. “Dude, how drunk _are_ you.”

“Just about drunk enough to take you home and fuck you stupid.”

Dean might be laughing, but he won’t object. The lettuce in his fridge is wilting away for five days now.

~ 

“No.”

“Come on, it’s not like somebody’s gonna walk in.”

“ _No_. I don’t want to.”

Sam push-pulls with his voice alone, but once his hands come into play, things become less metaphorical. “Just a little,” he says, as if anything he desires could be ‘little’.

Dean’s knees hit the tiles. The impact hurts. Far worse though is the distant-close scent of toilet cleaner, of sanitizer. Dean’s stomach heats up wrong. He presses his palms over his thighs, closes his eyes, tries to get into it.

Sam’s phone goes off next-door just when he’s unzipping his slacks.

Dean trembles dry.

“Please.”

“No. Open up.”

Dean does. His face feels too hot under Sam’s palms. They’re cradling Dean’s jaw instead of running through his hair, and Dean knows a favor when he sees one.

Sam lets him pull off one last time before he’s truly got him hard, before it’s Sam’s cock and Dean’s throat and five minutes until the department meeting continues. Dean wipes a hand over his mouth, holds Sam away with the other, squirms in a futile search for comfort.

“Just don’t. Don’t make it messy.”

“I won’t,” and Dean is ice-warm, pressed between body and wall, and Sam’s got him, he’s got him.

~ 

“It’s you who wanted the contract gone.”

As if Dean would have to be reminded.

“So it’s gone,” says Sam, uncaps the next round of beer, still smells like Sauna-warmed skin and Dean. Dean frowns at his own bottle.

“This is not how I pictured it.”

“I told you we would keep it up. You can’t expect me to drop all of it.”

“But you’re nothing but _pushing_ lately.”

Some game is on; not even their favorite team. At least this is Dean’s place for once. Sam’s just looking for a way to spend the night anyway.

“It’s just like when we had the contract, but now it includes work, too!”

Dean knows Sam isn’t looking at him because he is watching him now, is looking for something, anything. An apology for the gym shower thing, for the work stuff. It’s getting out of hand, is what Dean is implying.

Sam shrugs, sips his beer.

“So what? I’ve got it under control. We won’t get caught. Stop worrying.”

~ 

The plug buzzing away in Smith’s ass is the size of what he assumes could be a regular avocado (not that he’d eat those, god no, but he’s held them in his braver moments, pondering, at Whole Foods), and Mr. Fuller is summing up important numbers a few feet away, walking up and down the room as he does. Smith would be sweating even without the stimulation.

There doesn’t seem to be a pattern to which Sam plays with the settings until Dean realizes it happens every time Fuller rolls his eyes.

“So if all of you could just get your heads out of your _stupid asses_ for one moment—”

Dean coughs as he jolts, slightly bends over.

“Son. Are you alright over there?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m. Sorry, sir.”

“ _Great_.” All smiles aside, Dean knows him well enough to be aware that he better not disturb his monologue again. “As I said: if you would be so kindly, then we might have a chance to outrace Clark and Brazen, and this is a big _if_ , because, you see—”

When the meeting is done, Dean isn’t the only one who has to keep sitting for another moment. His colleagues are sighing and wipe their faces, stare into the void instead of their phones, coffees long forgotten. Dean is just as spaced out; has been from the start. He didn’t catch a single thing. That he’ll have to work through the report of the last hour and a half already gives him a headache.

He’s throbbing from head to toe. Sam said to meet him in his private restroom later, aka now, aka maybe five minutes ago. Dean didn’t pay attention to when Sam left the room. The pain-pleasure is too consuming.

Sam said he’ll take the sound out. That he’ll maybe unlock Dean, suck him off. Treats to any pedigree poodle, and fuck, if Dean could be confident in his legs anymore, he’d be _running_ right now.

But as things are—hazy, swollen, red-hot—he’s contented just to be breathing regularly.

Of course Sam doesn’t keep his promise. Says Dean didn’t keep up his end either, that it’s only fair this way.

“Nonono, don’t, ohmy _god_ —”                  

“You should keep it down, Smith.”

Wesson smirks just like a man who’s not getting fucked with a rock-hard, vibrating avocado.

Dean’s sweated through his suit jacket before he can vocalize it and before Sam took the sounding piece off his cage and thus out his dick. Ejaculation is immediate and painfully unsatisfying after being close and beyond for so long. All Sam’s cock up his ass does for him is make him sore. He grits his teeth, doesn’t make much of a sound.

His hands slip against the tiles. There is no purchase, no preamble.

~ 

It’s four AM and almost Christmas.

That’s what Smith’s sleep-dazed brain comes up with as he stares at the bedside radio, and suddenly that’s scary, that’s a long time, that’s.

“Hey. Hey.”

Sam groans under the softest assault in the history of mankind, but he’s somewhat awake, not much better than Dean; that’s enough.

Dean whispers, “We never celebrated your birthday,” and yeah, no, sounds even worse out loud. “Oh my god, Sam, you never _said_ anything.”

Another groan, more painful this time. Dean presses closer, big-spoons his boyfriend who turned thirty-three right under his eyes without him noticing.

“Don’t mention it. It’s okay. It’s fine. I’m not a birthday person anyway.”

“You got me _a spa weekend_ for mine,” reminds Dean, tucks some hairs back behind Sam’s ear. “It’s. I’m the worst. Oh my god. When even _is_ your birthday.”

That’s when Sam turns, puts his arms around Dean to cradle him, kiss him sweet. “I said it’s okay,” he repeats, kisses again to make a point.

Dean growls. “But I want to spoil you back.”

“You’re spoiling me daily,” sighs Sam.

Yeah, no.

Dean must find the ultimate Christmas gift this year, no matter what.

Unfortunately, that’s where things start to get difficult.

What does Sam like—except alcohol, The Cowboys, BDSM and Dean?

Men’s gift guides point to watches, but Sam’s got all the arm candy he could wish for. Personalized jewelry seems…too much. (Dean isn’t some love-struck teenager, for fuck’s sake.) DIY gifts would work out if he had any idea how to craft, and even then, _what_ would he craft? Some freaky BDSM stuff, and Sam would end up not using it because it wouldn’t be up to his safety standards. Could wrap himself in a ribbon for all he knows. Easy and effective. Sam surely would appreciate the gesture.

Sam owns every type of book Dean comes up with, isn’t particularly fond of any movies. He owns beautiful cars and beautiful furniture; he’s complete, he’s perfect, there’s nothing to _add_.

It _should_ be something they can do together. Sam wouldn’t want to do anything on his own judging by how glued to Dean’s back he is nowadays (since forever, actually).

Dean consults the internet for romantic getaways. They all look too cheesy, too crowded. If Sam would want to go on vacation with him, he’d a) have to announce his vacation plans to CS months in advance and b) simply throw Dean over his shoulder and rent a cabin out in the woods or something along these lines.

Puerto Rico. That’s where Sam’s favorite nanny came from, right? But maybe that would open old wounds. They haven’t exactly talked about these things after Sam first brought them up.

“It’s difficult.”

Lafitte nods empathetically. “What kind of music does he like? Maybe a concert? Is he a theatre fan?”

Dean frowns. Maybe he shouldn’t have talked about this with the newbie. But there’s this rare type of people even Dean immediately feels comfortable with and Lafitte matches that profile. An up-and-coming addition to HR; beyond question.

Plus, he finishes Dean’s lunch leftovers without a hint of pity or worry or second thought. A _big_ plus.

“Hm. Jazz? Old stuff. Blues.”

“Jazz as in bossa nova, or Dixieland, or hard bop, or…?”

Dean’s jaw drops a little. “I. Where’s the difference? I don’t—I don’t know.”

Lafitte finishes Dean’s vanilla pudding with a smile. “Any bands or performers that come to mind?”

Dean thinks for a moment, filters memories of Sam’s living room. Sam isn’t one to talk about music. (He has yet to be bothered to ask Dean if he likes the records he puts on. Dean doesn’t mind one way or the other.) “Something like. Uh, something-something Davis?”

“Miles, maybe?”

“Sure, yeah? I don’t know.”

“That would be cool jazz then. Or bebop, dependin’ on which era your buddy’s all about.”

“Wow. You sure know a lot about this stuff.”

“My wife’s a fan,” admits Lafitte. His laughter is loud and honest; his entire body moves with it. “I sure as hell couldn’t tell you a thing about any other genre, ever.”

~ 

Dean is wearing last year’s cufflinks, got a fresh haircut. Doesn’t have a cock cage on. Could be with his family this year—it’s more quiet now that he’s been taken on by CS and doesn’t have to bare his neck twenty-four seven—but he’s with Sam. Because he chose to.

It’s special, somehow sacred. Their ‘big’ anniversary.

They’re eating out—Dean is paying. (Had a minor anxiety attack when Sam had taken a tad too long with the menu; maybe it had been the wrong restaurant choice after all, but then Sam ordered and even ended up praising the chef, so, all is well.)

“It’s, uhm, i-it’s only something small, I didn’t really… I mean I _thought_ about it, but.”

“This is great,” assures Sam. He’s holding the tickets like they could fall apart at any whiff of air.

“It’s…not too cheesy, is it?”

“No. No, seriously, I like the idea.”

Sam grants one hand to let go of the tickets and take Dean’s hand instead. Dean shifts so that they can hold onto each other.

They’re only halfway through the wine, but it is excellent wine. Sam smiles differently when he’s drunk; this is a different one now, something almost-forgotten. As if he just remembered himself that he has it in him.

“What’s it about? I’ve never heard of it before.”

Dean chuckles. “See, that’s what I was going for.”

“Surprising me?”

“Uh-huh. Took me some research, I’ll tell you that.”

“Thank you.” Sam squeezes Dean’s hand. “You put a lot of thought into this gift, and I will appreciate it as much as I can.”

Sam puts the tickets to _Julietta_ down then to go for the inner breast-pocket of his suit jacket.

A slightly more mischievous smile. “I got you something as well.”

“Uhm.” Dean cringes but holds on to Sam’s hand. “Uhm, can that wait until after…?”

“It isn’t erotic in any way. Promise.”

Dean squints over the table, finds nothing but honesty and eventually gives in with a small nod, a deep sigh.

Sam proceeds to move the object in his hand to the middle of the table and folds it into Dean’s palm.

It’s a tiny, black box.

Sam urges, “Open it,” and Dean, swept away in a sudden wave of childhood memories and unboxing presents, does just that—peels at it with his fingernails until it snaps open.

His stomach drops so low he can almost hear it collide with the asphalt and the box closes just as immediately as it had opened.

Dean stares at it, but he doesn’t want to open it again.

Nothing, for a while.

If Sam is still there, he hasn’t moved.

Dean begins, “Th-this. This is,” and Sam then makes clear, “It’s. It’s not a proposal or anything, Dean.”

“Oh,” Dean says. “Okay.”

He feels terrible. He opens the box once more now. Takes the silver band in for a long moment—tries to make up words, something, anything, a reply, a thank you.

Sam says, “You don’t like it.”

“N-no, it’s. It’s beautiful, really, just.”

_Sure, sir, we can get that done until Friday. But once the engraving is on there, we can’t exactly give you a refund, if. You know. – No, no, it’s fine. I’m. I’m sure about this._

“It’s—this is too much.” Dean shoves the ring back towards Sam, presses on against the border of hands he’s encountering. “Sam, I’m, I’m not ready. This is _way_ too fast.”

“It doesn’t mean _any_ thing,” insists Sam, decidedly more quiet now. “It’s jewelry, nothing more. I’m not proposing to you. I saw it and thought of you. That’s all there is to…this.”

You can’t exactly get up from the table you made reservations for in your name for you and your boyfriend on Christmas Eve, and leave your boyfriend behind together with the ring he bought for you, but god, every fiber in Dean wants to run when Sam peels the box open himself, extracts the silver band and gestures Dean to give him his hand.

Letters flash from its insides, and Dean spreads his fingers with all the control he has left.

It fits perfectly. Not that it surprises Dean.

Sam cradles his hand with as much care as he had done with the opera tickets.

“It…it looks good. Thank you.”

Sam doesn’t seem to be listening. “You can wear it on a necklace if that changes anything.”

“Well, I can’t just show up at work like...like _this_. There would be questions. You know how it is. People would—Sam, they would _talk_. Like, straight away.”

“Wear it on a necklace under your shirt then,” murmurs Sam, and there is no question. There never was.


	21. Chapter 21

Sam gets him a silver necklace to match the ring. It is discreet under clothing, might just be another bruise Dean is hiding. Dean takes it off during workouts since it’s a hassle then—at least until Sam notices. He keeps it on afterwards.

Dean slips the ring on, sometimes. When he’s alone, half-asleep. The entire ring-issue brings back memories of Lisa, of what could have been. Could Dean have made it work if he had put just a little more enthusiasm into their relationship? Would he be happy if he would have stayed? A family of his own—would that have been what he would have wanted?

Being with Sam is like nothing he has ever encountered, be it his own experience or his friends’. One second it feels like they are in fact mutual, that there is no hesitation and no boundary between them. The next second, Dean runs into the next-best wall, or is shoved into it.

The isolation isn’t doing him good. Now that he started thinking about it, it becomes painfully clear. Same goes for Sam, obviously. Yeah, sure, they’re both not the most sociable guys, but…it might be just what they need. A little distance. To get a grasp of what’s happening. A new standpoint.

Benny hates cardio, he says, but he’s close to Sam’s rates once the strength exercises come into play. Upon Dean’s proposal, Benny gets himself a gym card as well. He’s just one career step below Dean; he has to pay a small fee for what Dean and Sam get for free.

“It’s fine,” Benny assures, sweaty as hell but obviously pleased with himself. “Andrea actually might send you a gift basket or something.”

They have alcohol-free beer at the gym bar after the showers. Neither of them is impressed. They decide for real beer at a real bar. It’s Wednesday, eight thirty PM. Dean is back home by ten, just on the right side of tipsy to fall asleep better. Or, well.

“Hey. You still up?”

_“Reading.”_

“Uh-huh.”

_“…Are you drunk?”_

“Pfsh, when have I ever drunk-dialed you…”

_“Only half of the times you actually call me at all.”_

“Don’t be like that.” Dean sprawl-sinks deeper into his bed, fingers the ring. “I was gonna ask if you wanna come over?”

_“And do what?”_

“Me. Obviously.”

Silence. Ha.

“Yes or no, Wesson?”

_“Can I spend the night?”_

Dean laughs, “Duh,” and his nail catches on the engraving of his ring.

The waiting for Sam leaves Dean with enough time to nibble down another apple, brush his teeth, do a quick douche. He applies his night cream early because, honestly, his face needs it. He puts on his favorite underwear, socks because in contrast to a certain CEO’s, his apartment does not have underfloor heating. A simple white button-down he would not be sad about if it would end up losing a button or two; just because Sam likes to unwrap him.

Dean sighs at the sight of Sam on the other side of his door. He opens, feels good and loose and Sam smells nice, very fucking nice. “This is so con _ve_ nient,” Dean says, and Sam smiles as he starts getting out of his coat. “Like ordering pizza. But instead of food, it’s sex. This should be a thing.”

“It is, darling.” Sam is wearing his usual slacks and button-down. Dean is already in the wake of getting those off. “It’s called prostitution.”

Dean smirks, “So you’re my lil’ hustler? My callboy?”

“Now you are being obscene.”

“Don’t act like you don’t like it.”

“Hm. True.”

It’s different. Almost tender. Almost normal. No, wait…it’s _not_ normal, and it’s good.

Sam goes slow (different), lets Dean have his drunk way of pulling and smooching (different). Doesn’t pin him down, not really, not for a second. Holds Dean’s hands a lot. Kisses a lot. If Dean could form any coherent words, he’d ask what the hell is wrong. Then again, maybe he doesn’t want to know. This is nice. He is enjoying this kind of sex—slow and lots of body contact and barely any slapping sounds, just, grinding, and…fuck, it’s good. It’s just what he needed tonight.

With Sam nestled on top and so fucking deep inside of him he can almost feel it on the outside of his belly, Dean is _this_ close to slipping the Big L. Luckily, even his intoxicated brain is smart enough to hold it back. (If Dean is the first one to say it, he’ll give Sam even more leverage than he already has. Not good.)

Sam doesn’t call him ‘pet’ that night (different). Doesn’t talk at all, really. Kinda nice for a change.

They wake up together, have breakfast together, take separate cabs after kissing goodbye, thanks for coming over, thanks for having me, et cetera et cetera.

This is working out. This is good.

Dean has lunch with Benny and James. Dean laughs at a joke Charles makes.

 

 

~ 

“It’s showing through my pants.”

“It isn’t.”

Dean huffs, accepts. He lets Sam tug his underwear and slacks back up, rests his forehead against Sam’s shoulder while zipper and hooks are being secured.

“Hey. Here. Look at me.”

Dean does. Can only imagine how he must look, judging by Sam’s satisfied expression.

“We’ll take it out tonight. You can do this.”

“Hm.” His eyes flutter closed.

“What, you think you can’t?”

“No,” Dean murmurs, “I can. I can do it. After work. Seven-ish?” He hisses because Sam tugs him closer with both hands on his ass, jostling the toy. (The cage is kind of unnecessary; there’s more pain than pleasure, really.)

“We can make it six. I don’t have that many appointments today.”

“Okay.” Dean cranes his neck for a kiss, gets it; hisses again. “Stop that.”

“I can’t help it.”

“You’re like a dog with a bone.”

“I am,” Sam smiles.

The vibrations start up during the ten AM phone conference with Sweden. Sam hadn’t mentioned anything about any vibrations. Dean has to excuse himself to the bathroom to splash his face with water, clear his mind, groan into his fist. Back out there; the show must go on.

Things are beginning to dawn on Dean during lunch. When, as soon as he’s in the elevator with his colleagues, the calm constant buzz changes into a pulsing rhythm. Because Dean is good at masking, nobody notices a thing that could be different about Mr. Smith.

While a _Slow It Down!_ text gets him more furious pulses, the _It’s Too Loud, People Will Hear!_ gets him his way. He’s slightly shaky by now. His reflection blinks at him with glassy eyes.

That he is enjoying this is just about as horrible as it would be if he completely hated it.

“Wanna watch the game tonight? I found a nice bar, not far from here.”

“I can’t, sorry.”

“Buddy, you look kinda pale. You alright?”

Benny, who is usually great at keeping his distance, steps a little too close and looks too concerned for Dean to endure right now, today, with a fake dick jammed up his ass and torturing him to the point of Should I Go Cry In The Men’s Bathroom Now Or In Twenty Minutes?

“I’m good, I’m fine, I just… I dunno, maybe I ate something bad.”

“Ah, take care. I understand. Maybe next time.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” Dean doesn’t have to force smiles for Benny.

 

 

~ 

“Please, please…!”

“Do I have to gag you?”

Dean lets his head droop, huffs, squirms. Arches his back some more.

“Yes,” Sam murmurs with his hands relentlessly roaming across Dean’s sweaty skin as if he is inspecting it, “that’s what I thought.”

More Velcro. Dean’s nails peel on the insides of the gloves, but his wrists and thus arms won’t go anywhere. Same for his knees, now. Sam tucks Dean’s cock and balls back through his thighs to both Dean’s dismay and excitement. He has been hard from the second the cage came off, had been dripping for a while prior to that.

The sweat makes it feel like he’s melting together where Sam taped him.

Dean whines.

“Just another second, pet.”

Something wide pats his ass and hits the base of the wildly buzzing toy. Dean gasps when it comes again, harder this time, effectively nudging the toy impossibly deeper.

Sam starts up a rhythm. They are just simple taps, really, but they play him like a fiddle. Dean’s conscience has a hard time trying to decide if what is currently going on is pain or pleasure.

“This is a paddle. Maybe they used one on you during pledge week. I know they did it to me.”

“D-don’t—”

“What, I’m just exchanging memories. We almost were in the same fraternity, you know that? How weird that would have been.” Quicker, harder slaps. Dean tenses, groans. “Maybe we would have met sooner, then. I always wonder what would have been. What would be different now.”

“Shut up or I’m gonna safeword, Sam, we, we talked about this.”

“No, _you_ talked about it. And you’re not going to, because you know this is the only way you’re gonna come tonight, so stop trying to fucking pretend to be anything but this and _give in_.”

And Dean does—come, not give in. Or maybe both. They are kind of fused, aren’t they? Sam finally lets him up from his over the couch bend just to secure his arms behind his back now, gloves still on, dildo still buzzing (and how is that even possible). Dean is aware of himself babbling something about ruining Sam’s pants because, no shit, he’s come all over the back of his own thighs Sam is currently pulling in so Dean can lean back up against his front; but Sam just shushes, kisses Dean’s neck and plucks on his nipples.

Dean’s knees buckle. This is too much.

“M-m-make it stop, m-make it…”

“Give in,” repeats Sam. A sharp biting sensation announces the nipple clamps and Sam’s teeth sink into Dean’s neck at the same time, and Dean’s legs give in for good then.

Sam holds him up. Rearranges him. Puts him on the carpet, face down, ass up. Pushes the toy deep into Dean with both thumbs, and Dean earns some serious rug-burn on his knees for that.

“I’ll do anything, anything, make it stop, make it stop!”

Sam laughs. “Anything?”

He makes a game out of pressing the base down-in, watching Dean’s body trying to push it back out. After a few times, he drops one hand down to flirt under the head of Dean’s cock (by now half-hard (again, still?), torturous).

“Actually, I was thinking about putting a ring here. Since you don’t like the one I gave you for your finger.”

Dean spasms, gurgles something, but Sam holds him in place by his hip, keeps stroking his cock with the tip of one finger.

“If done right, it’ll heal fast. It wouldn’t even hurt that much. It would suit you.”

“No, no, Sam, no…”

“It would be so much fun to play with, don’t you think? We could work you up to sizes that would feel like a sound, constantly. The kind with a metal bead. I could plug you up whenever, just rotate the ring.”

“No, no!”

“Thought you said you’d do anything, pet.”

“Not that! Not that!”

Sam laughs, finally lets Dean’s cock at peace, bends down to mouth at his balls instead. Dean can’t help but shove his ass higher, closer, for more. Sam licks around Dean’s taint, up and along the stretched-wide quiver of his rim.

“It hurts,” pants Dean. “It hurts. T-take it out. I’m so sore, just… Fuck, please.”

Dean gets the gag and the earplugs, and his blindfold gets just a little wetter.

Sam strikes him across the ass with something, impossible to say what it is—he tries to squirm away but of course doesn’t go far. Sam turns him over after a while to do the other side.

It’s a revelation, really, when Sam finally unbuckles the straps that helped keep the toy in Dean throughout the day. It’s what pulls Dean back from wherever he has been, makes him sweat anew. The vibrations stop. Inch after inch is extracted, and the fat head tugs extra-mean. Dean feels like he’ll never be the same down there, as if Sam carved a place for himself. Dean tries to contract a muscle, any muscle, but he’s butter, broken, close to passing out.

The earplugs come out but Dean is too far gone to hear what Sam is saying.

Dean wakes with Sam plastered to his back, naked, in bed. He peels them apart, carefully not to wake Sam but fortunately, the guy is out like a light. Bathroom.

His ass leaks come into the toilet.

Dean Smith remains sitting longer than needed. Holds his arms crossed, bent over, stares at his toes. The necklace with Sam’s ring is dangling under his chin.

 

 

~ 

“He’s just a friend.” Dean has been pushing his salad around the plate for a while now, and that Sam lets it pass is not necessarily a good sign. Dean frowns, but his shoulders slump. “We have a beer occasionally, we eat lunch together. That’s it.”

“And the gym?”

“Sam.”

“What?” Sam sits in front of an only half-finished bowl of lentil soup, spoon in hand and all. “I’m just saying,” he adds.

“Saying what?”

“I don’t like this guy.”

“Yeah, no joke.”

“I don’t like how he looks at you.”

“Jesus, Sam, what—what’s your problem? He’s _married_ , for God’s sake.”

“Oh, because once a man is married, he drops his dick with the vow or what? Are you _blind_ , Dean?” And Sam leans closer, frowning himself now, then lowers his voice like he just remembered that they’re not alone in the restaurant. “Matt had a girlfriend too, didn’t he?”

Smith, in the small increment he has left for that, sits back in his chair.

Sam still stares at him like he is waiting for a reasonable answer.

“You did not just say that.”

“I did. And do you understand what I mean? Don’t you get it?”

“I’ll head back now,” says Dean, already peeling cash from his wallet to leave on the table, “and I’ll pretend you did not just imply what you implied, and I’ll refrain from punching you in your goddamn face.”

Sam remains sitting with his stupid soup and Dean’s unfinished meal. All he does is glare up at Dean in silence.

“Benny is a friend, and it’s good for me to spend time with him, and maybe, if you are even capable of doing so, should fucking try to do the same, because this here is getting ridiculous.”

Feels very fucking good to leave Sam behind like that, just stalk down the block, shoulders hunched under his coat but chest out, back straight, what the fuck, why did he ever think Sam would actually respect a single one of the rules Dean had set up?

Sam catches up with him by the time the CS complex comes into view, but doesn’t close in on him until they’re inside the building, inside the elevator. There is some glaring, but no further words. In fact, the first time Sam speaks to Dean again is late at night. And, to be fair: it’s not _speaking_ , it’s a text.

_Wesson: I can give you toys, but I can take them away, too._

Dean hasn’t navigated to the call function this fast for a long time.

“Sam, stop, this is _enough_.”

_“Oh, your reactions clearly tell me it’s not enough at all.”_

“Leave him out of this! You can’t just—”

_“You think I can’t?”_

Dean stops, breathes, squeezes the phone in his fingers. His head hurts. “Sam,” he pleads. “I don’t know what to tell you anymore. You’re going too far. There is no reason for you to be this jealous. I’m not…” A huff, tense brow. “That’s not gonna happen an-anymore. I-I-I wouldn’t let anyone do that to me again.”

_“As if you could promise that. Or control it.”_

“I can. I _can_.”

Sam is chuckling on the other end of the line.

Before Sam can speak, Dean interferes, “L-l-listen,” his tongue moving so fast he can barely keep control of it. “I-I-I only w-w-want y- _you_ , s-so, I-I don’t guh, I don’t get why, what else d-do you, what else am I su-supp-supposed t-to, I—”

_“Then prove it.”_

Smith’s mouth claps shut. He’s hunched over now, and sweating.

“How?”

 

 

~ 

They don’t speak throughout the entire flight, mostly due to Dean’s sourness. Sam’s satisfaction radiates off him like some disgusting perfume, and Dean hates it.

Sam gently touches his shoulder shortly before the landing, mutters something about an apology he doesn’t mean anyway, so Dean doesn’t bother listening.

“You’re a _child_ ,” is the first thing Dean says to his partner, and it’s in the hotel lobby and in front of the concierge, who instantly looks less comfortable with these two new guests. Sam just sighs, gives the guy a sad-amused look as if this is a usual couple quarrel or whatever. As if Dean’s fury is to be belittled.

The staff must know what is going on here this weekend. Hell, they must. Maybe they’re even specialized in this kind of stuff. Dean eyes the double bed in their suite with extraordinary caution.

“Will you be this grumpy the entire time?”

“Absolutely,” grunts Dean.

Sam sighs, steps behind Dean to put his head on his shoulder, nose at his neck, cup his shoulders for the world’s smallest hug. “Relax,” Sam advises. “You wanna take a bath? You could just soak for half an hour, get settled. Let the tension melt away.”

Dean says nothing, since everything his mind comes up with are insults of varying intensity. He’s being a brat already; he’s not keen on truly ruining Sam’s good mood.

Eventually, Sam decides, “Okay,” lets go of Dean with a final kiss to his hair, pats his shoulder. “You have it your way. I don’t mind.”

The event starts off with a small welcome speech and non-alcoholic drinks, and Dean not only feels like he doesn’t belong here—he _doesn’t_. His skin is constantly crawling. In his effort of trying not to make eye contact with anyone, even the clutch of Sam’s arm around his shoulder, the reassuring little gestures like kisses and whispers, are welcome.

The host announces the activities and courses of the following two days, and Dean excuses himself to the bathroom to throw up all the fruit juice he unthinkingly had gulped down. Sam side-eyes him with the thin mouth of a disappointed parent who can’t scold their child in front of an audience, but Dean couldn’t care less. He’s still feeling sick. Better get accustomed to it, huh?

Sam takes him aside once the speech and program are over with, hushed but gentle voice Dean usually only hears in bed. “You can go to our room now, get some rest. I’ll come up later. There are quite a few people here whom I haven’t seen in ages.”

Dean glares around the room without really seeing any faces. “Friends, you mean?”

“You could call them that, yeah.” Both hands on Dean’s shoulders now, gently squeezing and rubbing him. Consolation. The obligatory _It Will Get Better, Just Wait_.

Dean snorts.

“I told you I was in the scene for quite a while before we met, didn’t I?” A quick kiss to Dean’s temple Dean wants to wind away under, but can’t. Sam’s hands let go too late. “Relax, sleep, whatever you need. Call room service if you feel like it. I’ll be with you in another hour or so. Don’t wait up.”

Dean can feel eyes on him wherever he goes. Everyone suited up, the women too. It could be a gala for all he knows.

Sam ordered him not to speak with anyone, as if Dean would have needed to be told.

The bathtub actually is nice. Not as nice as Sam’s jacuzzi back home, but it does its part. Dean brought his own bathrobe, wraps as much of himself as he can with it, gets his phone and earphones, lies on the bed, waits. Eventually uncurls, just a little. Fingers between the bars of the cock cage, fumbles with the ring. Journey’s _Escape_ is playing on repeat.

Dean is only half-aware of Sam climbing into bed with him, let alone entering the suite. He rolls over without complaint, wraps his arms around Sam in return, gets kissed and held.

They intertwine their legs under the covers. It feels off, with Sam’s as hairy as ever and Dean’s waxed completely bare.

“Did you catch up with your buddies?”

“I actually have to revise what I said earlier.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Sam sighs, sounds exhausted. “They’re not friends, I guess.”

“Oh,” slurs Dean. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“You’re the worst liar ever.”

“I’m not lying.” Dean’s head falls back into the pillows. Sam’s breathing evens out only moments later, and Dean follows.

 

 

~ 

Breakfast is meager and torturous, as expected. Sam is touching Dean constantly at this point, a brush here, a pat there. Sam is talking to other people every now and then, but Dean ducks away, refuses to listen. Just get it over with. Everything passes.

The room is filled even though everyone has their space left to work with, and Dean takes in the other visitors for the first time. The roles are obvious now—Dean and some other girl are the only subs with clothes on. He is pulled out of his thoughts by an unnecessarily mean tug on the rope Sam is fastening right now, hisses and earns a stern glare for that alone. Sam is pissed that Dean won’t let him show off his ‘pet’ properly. Well, fuck him.

All the nudity surrounding Dean is unsettling him. He could as well be naked, really—the rope pulls his clothes tight, makes every bulge stand out even more. Of course he’s not the only one in this room wearing a cock cage, but the thought of being seen wearing it by so many people, strangers…

Sam is still trying to calm him every chance he can get; leans in close to Dean’s ear when he threads the rope over crotch through the crease of Dean’s ass, one fat knot right over his asshole and it’s digging in uncomfortably-weird. Together with Sam’s reassuring whispers and obvious excitement about the entire setting, Dean can’t help but get affected himself.

He liked bondage right from the start. It’s actually what he likes most out of the assortment of fucked-up shit Sam pulls with him. He has to engage all his muscles to remain standing right now, but feels secure at the same time. Everything is packed tight.

“Oh, very good. Very good.” The teacher looks at Dean’s body but praises Sam. Some heads turn, and Dean keeps his eyes pinned on the teacher who stands a little too close for his likings. “See, this is what I was talking about—you can tell it’s a tight system, but all dangerous spots are left free. He couldn’t hurt himself if he tried.”

No touching. Sam said everyone here is professional, that he knows most of them. Dean can only hope he’s telling the truth.

The room is falling more quiet the more couples get done with their work. Some are already taking the ropes off, some are talking in hushed, sweet voices. Dean is still standing, his ass leaning against one of the tables, and Sam isn’t touching him but he’s nearby; Dean can tell even with his eyes closed.

Thank god for the fucking cage. Dean wouldn’t survive knowing everyone could see how hard this shit can get his dick.

“You’re amazing.” Forehead to forehead now, and Dean’s nostrils flare at the warmth. “You’re so beautiful. Everyone is staring at you. That’s how perfect you are.”

Part of Dean wishes Sam would kiss him now. He’d only have to kiss back then.

The ropes come off eventually, leave Dean deflated and itchy and strangely exhausted. Sam wraps him into his arms, holds him close. A peek over Sam’s shoulder shows Dean that they’re not the only ones indulging in this close type of intimacy right now.

It’s not something Sam does out of the good will of his heart—it’s part of the game.

“I wanna take you upstairs,” confides Sam a few inches shy of Dean’s ear, his dick throbbing against Dean’s stomach. “Wanna get you out of these clothes. Get my dick into you.”

“You said there wouldn’t be sex,” and Dean feels like kicking himself in the balls for that.

Sam smiles. “Not in public.”

They end up not going, but Dean does end up naked. He’s seriously excited now, eyes darting around the room, eager yet horrified to find someone staring back at him. But nobody does. Nobody even seems to be aware of him.

Sam clips a broad collar around Dean’s throat. Breathing and swallowing, every touch and movement is now an intensified sensation. It’s a relief that he won’t be expected to speak.

Next up is some sort of product presentation. All kinds of gears, of materials. It’s interactive. They watch a girl crawl across the hall with hand and knee protectors. It seems to be perfectly normal here to be aroused all the time; it’s just that nobody addresses the obvious. Dean only looks away from the girl when Sam pulls him along to the next stand.

Sam touches and holds many objects, seems to consider, to weigh, but ends up putting all of them down. He’s specifically fascinated by what looks like an arrangement of medieval torture tools but, as the vendor explains to what must be Dean’s shocked look, are ‘perfectly normal’ anal spreaders.

Dean quietly hisses, “If you buy any of those, I swear to god, Sam, I’ll shove’em up _your_ ass. While you’re sleeping.”

All Sam has to reply to that is an indifferent, “Hm.”

They stroll through the hall. It’s hard to tell if Sam is entertained or not. It’s obviously his kind of thing going down right in front of them, but he’s…cold. Quiet. Withdrawn, almost.

A beautiful woman, sleek dark skin and impressive tits, has what seems to be a taser demonstrated on her. When her dom goes from shoulders and arms to her breasts and then between her legs, she yelps loudly, but doesn’t ask him to stop. Doesn’t step back either. Seems to lean into the shocks, really. Dean is fascinated.

Sam grins at him when they reach a body mod stand. Dean is almost too occupied watching some guy getting his nipple pierced, right there and live, to really glare at his boyfriend for being such a dick. “Stop,” he croaks when Sam won’t keep from holding up various sized rings and barbells.

They have another bondage workshop, this time for more advanced participants (Sam, obviously, is one of them). There are hooks screwed into the ceiling. Dean has his arms bound to his torso before most other doms have their subs’ wrist knotted up all safely, and Dean feels a weird spike of pride, if there is something like that to be felt in this context.

“Way better without clothes, isn’t it?”

Dean says nothing, just holds eye contact.

“I love it when you do that thing with your mouth. When you pout like some bratty little boy.”

Dean immediately stops doing it (didn’t even know he was doing it in the first place).

“Now don’t be like that,” hums Sam, close-up and as if shielding Dean from everyone’s eyes. Dean lets himself get kissed, blinks wearily when Sam starts prodding around his asshole. He squirms, but Sam just shushes him, pumps some lube from the dispenser on the table right next to them and starts pushing some kind of toy into Dean.

Humiliation cuts sudden and sharp, makes Dean gasp not only from the sting, but then the thing settles slim and silky up against his prostate and he stops struggling. Sighs, lets his head fall against Sam’s chest. Sam grants him several deep breaths before he continues tying him up.

When he’s dangling from the ceiling with his head all dizzy and a plug shoved up his ass, it is that Dean Smith realizes he’s in a room, full of people, dangling from the ceiling with his head all dizzy and a plug shoved up his ass.

Whatever could have or would have happened then, he doesn’t know, won’t find out, because just a few feet over, someone is very suddenly but very urgently yelling, “Zebra!”

The room tenses and then swirls alive—the respective dom hauls ass to get their sub down as fast as possible, and it’s heartbreaking, really, how hard the poor thing is shaking.

Dean stares, completely oblivious to his own situation.

“Drops can happen to everyone, at any time. It can be linked to an earlier experience or it can be completely random. What counts here is to stop the scene, immediately, and go see what your partner needs. Some need space. Others need to be talked to, or to be touched. Communicate. Every drop can be different. Always ask before you do anything.”

The room listens. Dean is subconsciously rocking back and forth, only becomes aware of it once Sam puts a hand on his thigh, then flushes.

“Later, okay? I’ll take care of it later.”

He must mean the plug, right? God, Dean is riled up.

The last workshop for today is about breath play. Which, Dean figures, he completely shut out until just now. There are mats on the floor. The subs are guided to lie down on them, on their back. Sam brought a towel, and Dean tries not to hyperventilate.

Dean keeps his eyes closed to the point where Sam folds both of his hands around his throat.

He looks up, then, and they haven’t really started yet but he’s out of breath already.

Sam mouths, “Shhh,” and, “I’ve got you,” and, “Relax,” and then his grip tightens and Dean’s eyes fall shut.

The collar is still on. Sam is straddling Dean’s chest in a squat, ready to lift weight off or apply more, whatever he likes.

Submit. Breathe. This is safe. You’re safe.

The lack of oxygen starts to burn, fast, and Dean feels his head going hotter, his tongue going thicker. Tries to gasp for air out of instinct but Sam’s hands are right there, keeping his throat in line, not allowing anything to pass through.

Sam puts more weight into his ass, and Dean’s body lets out a huff he hadn’t known he had left.

Sam lets go at the first hint of a twitch of Dean’s head.

A haul for air, another—and the hands are back. Dean’s head lolls to the side, and his lips part.

Give in. Give up.

Submit.

Someone says, “Very good, keep it up,” but Dean can’t focus on where the voice is coming from, if far or close, or what tone it carries, can only feel heat and pressure and the struggle of his own pulse.

Letting go, choking, letting go, choking. The breaks in between get longer for Dean to recover. Sam doesn’t touch him except for his ass on Dean’s chest and his hands around his throat, but it’s like he’s everywhere, like everything of Dean is Sam’s and vice versa.

It’s…unlike everything Dean had expected.

It’s scary.

He only realizes how horrified he is once Sam’s hands don’t return for too long. He turns to look to his left, where someone else just safeworded out and is now cradled by their master; they are both guys, the one maybe in his twenties, the other in his fifties. The kid is the dom.

What is he doing here? What is happening?

“Hey, are you alright?”

Smith opens his mouth to say, “Yeah,” but only a choke comes out.

“He’s fine,” translates Sam.

Moaning hurts. Breathing hurts. Sam pulls on the collar, slams up into Dean’s body, and the bed is creaking obscenely.

Smith is empty and tired and restless, legs pressed together like that will somehow squeeze the cage off, and it’s not a big thought to stifle the groan ripping through him with his orgasm. Sam finishes while spanking the still-fresh bruises on Dean’s ass, leaves Dean breathing hard and spent with a gentle touch to his shoulder and a, “I’ll be right back.”

The showers starts, door open and all.

Smith watches the lights dance outside of their room in the busy hallway (people getting up to orgies or whatever, the fuck does he know anyway), listens to Sam showering.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **IT'S BEEN 84 YEARS**
> 
> Happy Halloween.

Sam eats in big bites. He’s not much of a chewer. Despite being on his way through a third helping, Sam’s appetite does not seem any closer to satisfaction.

He looks around the room while he eats, up from his phone (politics, finances, stock market). A dismissive snort, a click of tongue. More bread.

Then, eyes up to Dean.

“Wanna know who in this room asked if I was sharing you?”

Dean, nibbling on his second toast and three coffees in, is too dumbstruck to give a smart-mouthed reply. Or any at all.

“I swear,” rumbles Sam, attention back to his phone, “savages. Nothing but savages.”

~

Dean is not the only one with (fresh) bruises. Many have scars of their own to show. The realization that Dean’s—once compared—aren’t the worst of the lot, is sobering.

Thanks to Sam’s (unnecessary) comment, Dean once more lost all interest in communication with any of the guests. Only one more day and they’ll go back home anyway. Dean can scrub all hotel grime and fetish stink off. Can be himself again, wear his clothes again.

They sit through a speech about safewords. Dean (to his surprise) picks up a thing or two—silent safewords, of course, it makes  _sense_ , why hadn’t they used them before? Sam, next to him, has his legs and arms crossed, sprawls on his chair. His leg bobs up and down.

Another bondage lesson. Lunch (tasteless salmon, potatoes, why always potatoes). Dean is tired.

You can do this. Just a little longer.

They’re in the last stretch of the program: a social part so the guests can connect, exchange numbers or knowledge or whatever.

Sam clips Dean’s collar to the armchair Dean has sunken into.

“I’ll be right back. I need to talk to someone.”

He gives his phone a quick check, frowns, pissed off at something Dean didn’t do, doesn’t know about. Dean sighs, mumbles something vaguely resembling approval. Sam eyes him sternly.

“And remember: no talking.”

Dean nods. No shit, Sherlock.

Of course, Sam had to leave Dean by himself at the worst time ever. He either trusts Dean or set him up for failure. Not that it matters either way.

Dean tries to doze, rest his eyes a little. Tries to not think of imageries like a diver in a cage, underwater, surrounded by sharks—‘safe’. Or a painting in a museum, separated from curious hands only by a red line on the ground (‘don’t touch’).

Sam stays gone longer than anticipated. Nervousness overtakes Dean, makes him scan the room—for a sign, anything. He stares past heads, faces, and some seem exhilarated to see Dean looking up at them, but the contact never was deliberate. He’s only  _looking_ for someone, for god’s sake.

There is no clock in sight. What has it been, ten minutes?

Dean almost bites his nails, goes for running his knuckles along his teeth instead. He switches the order he’s swung his legs over each other. Stares at the ground. Waits.

What must the other guests think of him? Being left behind like that. Leashed to a piece of furniture.

Eventually, it comes to Dean's mind that he could open and remove the collar at any given time. It’s secured by a mere buckle.

Dean keeps staring down.

A pair of naked feet comes into view. The carpet is crimson red; the feet are white in comparison.

Dean looks up to find a petite redheaded woman standing in front of him. Naked. Collared.

“Hi,” she says. “Are you alright?”

Dean glares, says nothing.

“My wife and I were wondering.”

She seems carefree, tender. Her belly and chest are beaten black and blue. She leans a little closer, careful though not to make Dean more uncomfortable than necessary.

She's whispering. “He’s been gone for a while now, hasn’t he?”

Dean frowns, mouths at his hand. “…I’m not supposed to talk to you.”

“He forbid it?”

Dean nods.

She recedes. Seems to ponder something; her eyes flicker back and forth between spots just to the left of Dean’s head.

“If you need help—you just gotta go to the reception and ask if they have any toffee left.”

Dean blinks in confusion, begins to muster his courage to say, “What?”

The girl interrupts, “It’s a code. They’re gonna get everything underway. You’ll be safe.”

Dean drops his arm. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t want to push this on you, just—”

“Well, you blew it, missy. Leave me _alone_.”

Her features harden, but not in anger. “I’m not the only one seeing it. We overheard him, earlier. What he's doing—”

“Leave me ALONE!”

All heads in a ten feet radius turn towards them.

Dean is startled himself.

“Look,” he rushes under his breath, “you don’t know him. Us. You don’t _know_.”

She gives him a last, long look before turning on her heels and leaving Dean by himself.

Sam comes stomping up to the armchair and Dean another while later, now seriously pissed off, and thank god, “We’re leaving. I’m done with these people.”

Sam unclips the collar, and Dean rises to follow him.

~

They have champagne in the jet. Naturally.

“I used to be terrified of flying,” Dean remembers, nipping on what might be his third glass. He sits opposite to Sam who is typing away on his laptop.

“You did?” Sam only passingly looks up from his work, dives right back in. “What cured you?”

“The job, I guess. It was either flying or, I dunno, flipping burgers?”

“But you _are_ cured now?”

“Yeah? I don’t think about it much. I just remembered.” Dean snickers. He swirls the champagne around in its flute. “Also, booze always helps, am I right?”

“Have as much as you want. I need to get this done.”

Dean leans back into the seat; freshly showered and in one of his most comfortable suits, the top-brand hair gel, his first Rolex (bought from himself for himself with his own money), sweetly-perfect bubbling wine and a fuckton of miles above all the shit down on earth, and Smith is smiling pleasantly.

~

“So.” Dean peeks around the corner and into the kitchen where Sam is loading the dishwasher. “About Lafitte.”

“What about him?”

“You said if I come to that weekend with you, you’d be okay with me having normal, platonic, social interaction with him.”

Sam huffs his laugh. “If it doesn’t get out of hand—sure.”

“What does that even mean…”

“What?”

“I said,” and Dean raises his voice, “quit the jealousy, man. You’re being pathetic.”

Sam rummages through the kitchen cabinet, frowns, glasses still on and the sleeves of his white button-down pushed up his forearms. He’s inspecting one of the red wine glasses for stains.

“Why would I be jealous? I know you love me.”

Dean pulls himself together quickly, frowns through the smudge on his own glasses. Hisses, under his breath, “…You’re such a jerk.”

~

“I’ve, uhm. I’ve thought about what they, what they said, at the… Oh god, do that again, fuck…”

“About what?”

“No, no, just, keep doing that, jus—ah, yeah… Uh, ab-about the. The safeword. Thing.”

Sam hums around his mouthful of cock.

Dean squints down between his legs. Tries to watch for signs. “Can we, like. Have a, can I have a silent safeword, maybe?”

Sam’s eyes slick open.

“Just, uhm, for, sometimes when you gag me or—”

“Don’t you trust me?”

Hard to say what’s worse—Sam not putting his mouth back on Dean’s dick or Dean running into another wall.

“I do, I _do_ , just—I think I’d feel _safer_ just knowing I could hypothetically… Y’know?”

“You don’t need it.”

One hand around Dean’s cock, eyes boring through Dean’s, mouth pressing kisses over Dean’s pubis.

“You’re safe with me.”

~

Back in his city, his life. In public, even. Fresh from a workout, passingly watching the news flickering across the TV in the corner of Benny’s and his new go-to bar. It’s heaven, really. Alcohol—normal people—boring people. So easy to be faceless here, just fit in, don’t think about anything.

Benny asks where Dean has been, says he tried to call him to ask about next week but Dean didn’t answer. Dean explains he had to fly down to Kansas, catch up with his parents. Missing their kid et cetera et cetera, easy lies a fatherly guy like Benjamin Lafitte gladly swallows.

‘Benny’ almost is the same as ‘Ben’. And Benny’s beard looks a lot like Dean’s dad’s. He’s effortless, funny. He doesn’t ask much questions. (Dean’s, “Oh you go ahead, warm the showers for me, I’ll just do, y’know, another rep or so,” gets him a wink and the confession that Benny is insecure about his body hair anyway, he can relate; it’s okay, bud.)

In a way, this friendship is the same as Matt’s and Dean’s used to be. But maybe that’s to be blamed on Dean usually keeping to himself.

Affection is such a puzzling concept.

~

“Okay Milton, if you could bring me the Ashton contracts, the—yeah, _all_ of them, now would you be so _kind_ to—”

Dean interrupts himself by almost running into someone who doesn’t have the decency to get out of the way of someone really caffeinated and yelling into his headset. He also spills his current cup of coffee—over his shoes.

Dean Smith can curse very loudly.

The woman—it’s a woman, a woman’s voice, laughter; beige costume and long blonde hair and—

“Jo?”

She clips him against the shoulder as her reply before she proceeds to Dean’s office.

“Weren’t you—where—”

“You said I could come over, so I came over. And since you didn’t give me an address…!” Jo shrugs, smirks over her shoulder. She takes a seat on the edge of Dean’s desk instead of on the perfectly comfortable chair. “At least I know where you work.”

Dean takes a deep breath and closes the door to his office.

“Jo—”

“It’s so nice to see you too.”

Dean remembers to end the call with Milton, ends up finding out she was quicker. Bitch. “I’m, uh, it’s good to see you, I just—right now is not a good time, to—I’m in the middle of things, Joanne!”

“'Joanne' he says!” Jo laughs, pulls her phone from her pocket and takes a picture. “Oh mister CEO, look at you, so _authoritative_.”

“Give me that.”

“No, I promised Mom I’d send pictures.”

“You—Jo!”

His effort to snatch the phone from her doesn’t get him anything but a smug little grin on her red mouth.

Smith grunts.

Jo sing-songs, “I brought your niece.”

Grunting becomes sighing, becomes two fingers massaging the bridge of his nose, becomes the pain of not having seen his sister’s kid ever since, what, moving here? For Christ’s sake.

“Your husband?”

“He’s fine, somewhere in Barcelona. And you weren’t here when I came in, so—”

The door to Mr. Smith’s office gets opened from outside, and in comes little Naomi, grinning wildly and with her hair pulled up into two peach-sized buns.

Behind Naomi, getting tugged along by her tiny little hand, enters Sam.

“Mommy!”

“Sorry, she got so impatient.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine. Hey baby, remember uncle Dean?”

“Dean!”

Dean exclaims, “Baby girl,” in the same high note everybody seems to have adapted around the child. She lets him pull her up onto his arms, hugs him with all enthusiasm a kindergartener can spare.

“Smith—” Sam laughs, honestly and softly. “—you should bring your family to work more often. They are so sweet!”

Dean holds his niece a little tighter.

~

Jo smears a hair-thin layer of butter on her croissant. She hands it to her daughter straight away, sips more of her low-fat sugar-free latte.

“Your boss is so generous. Letting you off like that.”

“I guess.” Dean shrugs.

“He’s also super hot.”

“Jo…”

“I’m married, not brain-dead.”

“Great. Good for you.”

“Apropos good: are you gonna finish that?”

Dean considers the fruit salad remnants on his plate Jo is pointing at. He shakes his head.

“Baby, you want some banana? Some melon? Your uncle isn’t hungry anymore.”

The girl huffs, “Yes,” and brings the wobbliest little bites to her already smeared mouth as soon as the plate has been placed in front of her.

Children are. So. Inefficient.

“I love her so much,” groans Dean.

“Yeah,” sighs Jo.

The lunch that easily turned into tea time becomes a walk, through streets first and the park later. Spring is around the corner; fruit trees begin to sprout in at first so-shy green. Jo talks about Victor and his work and that she couldn’t stay at home for another minute without snapping. As much as a mother loves her child, she says, there comes a point where you want to break their neck if they do as much as open their mouth, and so she packed their bags and boarded the next-best plane.

“And so we’re here.”

“And so you’re here.”

Dean gets a hold of her slim hands, holds them in his own. Naomi is busy hacking a plastic shovel into the frozen ground. It’s oddly therapeutic to watch.

“It’s strange,” Jo hums.

“Hm?”

“To be here with you. Like, I had been thinking about it for a while, and it always seemed so…impossible? But all I had to do was grab her and a toothbrush and be on a plane for two hours, and that’s it. That’s all it took.” Her eyes follow her daughter. Her hands are cold. “Why haven’t we done this before?”

“Because I’m married—”

Jo’s face whips around.

“—to my _work_ , Jesus fucking, _Jo_ —”

“Can you not fucking swear in front of my kid, Smith, that would be appreciated.”

“I still can’t believe you made someone put a baby into you.”

“Right? That’s how much of a virtuous mother-figure I am.”

“Apparently.”

“Victor likes this mother right here, alright? He _loves_ her.”

“You mean your husband Victor who’s currently surrounded by swimsuit models?”

Jo pulls her sunglasses down to cover her glare. “Can we not talk about my marriage? Please?”

~

More coffee. Naomi gets a ridiculously huge muffin neither of the adults feels like finishing for her. Jo wraps it into a napkin and lets it disappear in her purse.

“You don't know where anything is, do you?”

“Told you I'm not getting out much.”

“Sure but—how long've you been here? Two years? And you can't even find a drugstore?”

Jo's cradling her daughter, unnerved and exhausted and Dean probably deserves it.

If he needs groceries, he gets them on the way from work. It's one huge mall and they have everything, so why bother looking for other places? Bars and restaurants, sure, but Jo is breastfeeding and about to have a breakdown.

They make do with a kiosk—diapers, a new pacifier.

Naomi is out by the time they made it to Dean's apartment.

“I'm still not, uh. You think it's okay?”

“Dean,” Jo sighs, “she's a toddler. It's past seven. Do the math.”

They place Naomi in the middle of Dean's bed. Dean's caught between praying that she won't miraculously fall off and that she won't drool or pee. Should have put another blanket under her.

Jo proceeds to go pump her breasts in the kitchen, back to Dean and not minding him grabbing himself a beer. His phone starts ringing just when he's uncapping the bottle. Dean picks up and makes subtle haste to get out of Jo's hearing range.

“Hey.”

“ _Hey. I wanted to ask if you guys are up for dinner.”_

“We just ate, but thanks.”

“ _Drinks then?”_

“She's tired. Maybe another time.”

Short pause. _“Is it not a good time?”_

“Nah. We've just been up all day. Kinda fried.”

“ _Alright.”_ Sam sighs. He sounds sleepy himself. _“Maybe we can grab lunch together tomorrow? She can bring the baby.”_

Jo's buttoning her blouse back up, glances over her shoulder, and Dean looks away again.

Murmurs, “Uhm. I dunno,” and sips his beer.

Jo comes over and gestures for who Dean is talking to; and he frowns, scoots away when she settles in too close.

Sam has yet to say another word.

“Look, uh—maybe, okay? I'll call you.”

Sam has just enough time to hum his 'okay' before Dean hangs up.

“Who was that?”

“A colleague.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“He wondered where I disappeared to.”

“Do you even go out anymore? Like, at all?”

Dean snorts, drinks, lets her put her twig-thin arm around his shoulders, lets her snatch the beer for one-two mouthfuls. Jo sighs, drops her cheek against his temple. He turns on the TV. They keep watching, huddled close, until they can't keep their eyes open for another minute.

Brushing teeth together, side by side. Jo giggles, improvised pajamas made out of an old shirt of Dean's. They sleep with Naomi wedged between them, safe and warm.

~

“Next time, let's get you outta town. We could rent a place. Get a baby sitter.”

Dean hums his approval watching Naomi watching cars speeding by.

“Thanks. For letting me stay at your place.”

“Ah come on. Don't be like that.”

Jo says, “I mean it,” and Dean imagines feeling her tremble on the last, long hug. He doesn't address it, and neither does she.

~

“You didn’t tell me your sister is such a beautiful woman.”

Dean does not mask his disgust at what Sam just made him hear with his own to ears.

“Yeah, 'cause she's my _sister_.”

Sam is smiling, distantly. Is picking at his watch. “You gonna introduce us sometime?”

“My family is boring. They'd bore you.”

“All of them? Even your parents?”

Dean's frown deepens. He leans back in his chair so he can give Sam the full What The Fuck face.

“You're not,” he says, “meeting my parents, Sam. That's not happening.”

“It upsets you. Why?”

“I'm not—w-w-w-e're not—”

He stops himself here. Takes a deep breath, pushes his glasses up where they slid down his nose.

Smith clears his throat, crosses his arms.

Sam is still craning his neck to watch him from the couch.

“Do your folks know?”

Sam raises his eyebrows in question. Doesn't get the hint when Dean keeps squinting at him with all that pregnant meaning and pinched mouth, turns his palms up.

“What? That I suck dick? Or your dick specifically?”

“Would you—can you be serious one goddamn time.”

“They know,” nods Sam. “Trust me.”

“You know what. I'm not even gonna go there.”

“Hell, Smith—so what? Do I look dead to you? Did they rip off my head, or my balls? No, they didn't.”

“We're not having this conversation, Sam.”

“We gotta have it eventually!”

Dean exhales sharply, stands up and raises his hands to make clear that he is done, and paces to the bathroom. Not because he has to go, but. He has to _go_.

Because Sam is an asshole, he waits until they're in bed, lights out and all. Sneaking a hand over Dean's shoulder and rubbing like consolation. Ironic.

Dean doesn't have the guts to shrug him off.

“Didn't you say you want us to get to know each other more?”

“Sam.”

“Are they religious or something?”

“It's just none of their business, s'all.”

“Should be,” murmurs Sam, close and warm and mint-fresh. Dressed, for what it's worth. “After all that time. I thought we were...something.”

Oh, they're something alright.

Smith does not feel like giving into Sam's games. Not tonight. Not about this topic.

After a while, Sam concludes, quietly, “My father is the kind of man who has three guns under his pillow, because it's his constitutional right. The only reason he is still married to my mother is because he once told some random priest that only death would part them. And, correct me if I'm wrong: between the both of us, I think it's obvious who's had the more emotionally enriched childhood. So, you being an asshole about this has nothing to do with them. That's you, Smith.”

Dean sighs into the crook of his elbow.

“You done?”

Sam sweeps his hand along his arm one last time before turning around, facing the windows.

~

Dean has to do a double-take when he sees the combination blonde and beige again at the office. A truly rare sight, since there doesn't seem to be a single blonde woman working on this floor. Dean can barely stop himself from shouting after who his brain wants to be his sister. But she's taller than Jo, this one. Wears a perfume that makes Dean stumble and hold on to the nearest door frame, and linger.

She disappears into Wesson's office, and Dean decides it's time for another espresso. Charles elbows him before he can entertain his addiction.

“A true lady, huh. Our good Mrs. Campbell.”

“Yeah, sure. Wait—who?”

“Mrs. Campbell,” repeats Charles, waving his finger into the direction the entire floor seems to have had turned their heads to. “Y'know, Wesson's mom?”

Dean double-takes that one. Wonders if he might be lucky enough for this this to be a joke.

“Have you seriously not seen her before? She comes in every other week or so.”

Maybe because Dean is actually _busy_ during work hours. Only leaves his office to speed to meetings, for three bathroom breaks a day (coffee breaks only if Rhonda is unavailable to do it for him).

Charles' flinch makes Dean flinch, when Sam's office door flies open and bangs shut after her.

Well. That was quick.

Dean watches her, now. The deep line of her frown, the set mouth. How she does not tuck her hair back behind her ear, does not look at anyone.

As fast as she poured in, CS spits her back out.

~

“What were you guys talking about?”

“Hm?”

“Your mother,” Dean hums.

Chin on the back of his hand now, atop Sam's chest. Watches for a reaction and doesn't care to be sneaky about it.

Sam thinks for a moment. Seems unimpressed. Unthreatened.

So, it was all staged.

He shrugs with one shoulder. “Nothing important.”

Dean stretches. Rolls his head first, himself next, and tucks himself under Sam's arm.

Sam's arm curls around his shoulder, sure and predictable. Safe.

Dean lets his eyes slip closed. “You talk about us? With her?”

Sam snorts his laughter.

Alright.

“If you wanna meet her, just gotta ask.”

Dean wrinkles his nose. “That would be weird.”

“Hm. Probably.”

~

Rhonda, at this point, is starting to worry, she says. So Smith stopped inquiring— _when_ did I tell you to set up this meeting?

Smith hops into elevators, into cabs. Sometimes it's Sam, but just often enough it's not.

The route isn't familiar until they reach the country club. Dean sighs, rubs his forehead, folds away his glasses. He has to ask how to get to the room. He can't remember.

The chandeliers. The scent. The wallpapers. The door is open, and Smith steps in.

He swears the curtains are even draped the same.

Mrs. Campbell blinks at him from one of the armchairs, smoking a cigarette.

Dean almost-stumbles. Puts a flat hand where his suit jacket is still buttoned.

“Uh—oh. Sorry, I...”

“Can I help you?”

“I was...I'm supposed to...” Smith looks around the room. Brings his hand up as if to reach for something. Turns to look at her, finally, and meets her eyes. “Ma'am, would you be...by any chance awaiting Mr. Wesson?”

The name makes her shoulders slump.

Her voice goes cold. “Is this supposed to be a joke?”

“I'm afraid I don't know much more than you do.”

Mrs. Campbell takes a tense breath. Lowers her eyes to the floor.

She rolls her smoke between her fingers.

“He set us up, didn't he?”

No need to give an answer here. Smith sinks onto the edge of the table, shrugs his shoulders. He starts to peel out his phone to check it.

In his peripheral, Mrs. Campbell shakes her head. “I can't believe this.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It's not your fault. Mr...?”

“Smith. Director of sales and marketing.”

“Oh,” she says, “it's you?”

Dean's thumb stops mid-tapping. He looks up, at her. “Do we know each other?”

“No. But he mentioned you, sometime. Awhile ago.” She takes a drag of her smoke. “I thought that was strange. He never names any of you suits.”

Eye contact. Her eyes are bright, clear, strict.

“He must be fond of you, Mr. Smith.”

“That's nice to hear.”

“What did you do to earn that, I wonder?”

Smith's mouth twitch-curls. Purses into a smile.

“I guess I'm doing a good job.”

“Workaholic?”

Smith smiles at his folded hands. “Guilty.”

“He's just the same. Work, work, always work. Just like his father.” Mrs. Campbell scoffs. Taps away ashes into some delicate ashtray. “You two talk a lot? At work, I mean?”

“Not in particular.”

“Hm.”

She smokes. Dean wonders if Sam really didn't tell her anything. If maybe she knows, and this is just another game.

“I'm glad to hear that he has _some_ sort of social contact though. I worry about him, sometimes.” She taps her smoke again, unnecessarily. Eyes back at Dean, first hint of a smile he's seen on her. “Do you maybe happen to know if he's still in contact with Jessica at all?”

“Who?” Smith mouth stumbles, “A girlfriend?”

“Fiancee,” she says. “Well, if he didn't tell you, you really must not be too close.”

Dean nods. Grips the one hand tighter with the other. “No. Probably not.”

“It's just...such a shame. It was going so well, you know? I really hoped it would work. But I guess my Samuel simply is a fish too slippery to catch.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“Don't be. I'm sure it was completely his fault. He tends to do that. Just look at us, at me. Ordering me here for some quality time and fobbing me off with one of his lapdogs. Oh, please don't take it personal.”

Wesson's mother's gaze drags away, into a distance seemingly far beyond the door she is facing.

She talks quietly, tiredly. “It's always me who has to clean up their messes.” Catches herself, straightens herself in the chair. Brings the cigarette to her mouth, smiles when she finds it burned down. “I'm blabbering. I apologize.”

“It's fine. Don't worry about it.”

Mrs. Campbell tilts her head. The blonde curls of her hair fall over her shoulder. “You're too nice for your own good, Mr. Smith. I'm sorry you happened to run into my son. He must be giving you one hell of a time.”

After considering his reply, Dean tells her, “I'm sure he has his reasons, ma'am.”

Mrs. Campbell chuckles as she produces a pack of smokes from her purse, strikes a match to light it.

“Now I _really_ do know the two of you are not close.”

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you got through chapter 17 you will get through this one too. **Tags have been updated.** Stay safe y'all!

The car ride back to the office is over too soon.

Dean vanishes into the men's room and locks himself in. Sits hunched over on the toilet lid, and doesn't know what to do.

What just happened?

His thoughts are toppling over each other. A blind panic.

Was it all part of a play? What parts did Sam orchestrate? How much does Mrs. Campbell know—about them, about Dean? Sam wanted them to meet; that one's a fact. But why? Just to upset them? Not impossible. Maybe.

And Jessica.

Was that a lie? But if it was, what would that accomplish?

Dean's mouth is numb. Back in his office, door shut tight, he's rid himself of his suit jacket, hung it over the back of his chair. Has an urgent paper in front of him, but he's frozen, staring at the monitor.

There is no reason Sam wouldn't be monitoring his PC, his phone. Actually, the possibility of hidden cameras had occurred to Dean months ago.

Shit. What's with this paranoia, Smith? Get your act together. (But you're not wrong.)

If she exists, if they used to be engaged, there must be something, anything. Research isn't the problem here. Dean has never shied away from hours of investigation; it's part of what makes him so good at his job.

But just how much is Dean supposed to _know_?

Sam has never mentioned her, Dean is a hundred percent positive about _that_. He would have fucking remembered a fucking fiancee. So, why bring her up _now_? Things are going well. Is that it? Does Sam crave drama that badly?

But they broke up. Why? Canceling an engagement isn't exactly cozy, no matter which side of the break-up you're on—Dean is acutely familiar with that. It's shameful, it's unpleasant.

There is no logical reason for Sam to let Dean in on this embarrassing part of his past.

But does logic even play a role in this?

Smith's head is pounding. He grinds his teeth, kneads his forehead, his eye.

Stay calm. You got this.

He's got you right where he wants you, you know. Splitting your fucking head over his fucking games. Tormenting you without touching you, without even being in the same fucking room.

(Maybe he's watching you, right now.)

Dean's eyes swim to the monitor again.

He has to get his hands on a safe internet connection asap.

~

“Anyone else would have set up, I dunno—dinner?”

“Nah. You would have weaseled your way out of that.”

Sam presses the machine into starting-position. Towels his face, doesn't wipe his seat before he offers it to Dean. He adjusts the weights for him.

“Maybe wouldn't have,” Dean grumbles. “Maybe, if you'd just be upfront about what you want, you'd be surprised about what people would be willing to do for you.”

“Yeah, right. Because honesty, that's your strong game.”

Dean glares through the effort of working the butterfly machine.

Sam is leaning against a nearby machine, bulging arms crossed in front of his puffed-out chest. (Not manually, just—strictly due to his physique.) Watches Dean, flatly.

“So you're saying, if I told you I want to shove my arm up your ass, you'd let me?”

Dean almost loses his grip on the handles. Feels a rush of terror, and weakness, and shame, and finishes his set just so.

Hisses, “Jesus,” and, “No. You're fucking sick, you know that? _No_.”

Sam shrugs and gets in motion to take over the machine once more. Says, “You would.”

Dean decides it's time to stop talking to Sam. Stalks off to another machine, as far away from Sam as possible. Sam leaves him be. Even lets him enjoy the sauna by himself, waits patiently for him, hair dripping into the neckline of his jersey, thumbing through his phone at the reception. Keeps his attention glued to it, even in the cab.

“I'm starving. Let's order out tonight. I need the couch.”

“You look a lot like her, y'know.”

Sam blinks up from his phone. Indeed looks exhausted, despite the glow of his skin. Glassy eyes, posture slumped just as far as he will let it go.

Asks, “Yeah?” softer than Dean would have expected.

“Around the eyebrows.” Dean gestures into his own face. “Chin, too.”

Sam considers what he just heard. Eventually turns back to his phone.

“Also, you both kinda have a giant forehead.”

“Shut the hell up.”

Dean laughs, and Sam smiles around his chuckle.

The door isn't quite shut and locked by the time Sam's crowding into Dean's face, mouth-first. Cups his face with both hands before he pushes them down, helps Dean shrug out of his jacket.

“Thought you were starving?”

“Am,” slurs Sam. Rubs his mouth down Dean's neck, laps at the tight string of muscle Dean is offering. He noses along the necklace carrying his ring. Pulls Dean's tee off so he can nip around the spot the ring usually rests on.

“Shit.” Smith sighs, melts. Buries both hands in Sam's hair to hold on. Repeats the cuss upon getting his pants yanked down, getting his ass groped with two too-warm palms.

Sam's mouth keeps roaming, suckling, restlessly. He nuzzles Dean's chest, the ring, and rubs Dean's hole, hard.

“Bet I can make you blow twice before the food guy's here.”

Dean groans an endearment, nothing too nice because Sam does not deserve it.

They land on Dean's couch, Dean on top of Sam who lifts both of their weight to push his sweatpants down. He's already at (at least) half-mast, his skin so clean and smooth Dean can't stop squirming their bodies together. The apartment is eerily quiet, so the obscene sounds of their kisses stands out stark.

Dean's eyes are sliding shut. He can feel Sam's lashes grazing his cheek, can hear his breath picking up, his body heat ever increasing. Dean winces on a first lube-slick finger even though he heard the bottle snapping open, knew it was coming. Gets his lip chewed on, and tries to breathe through the initial burn. It's easy, tonight. Sauna always helps with that.

“If you scoot up some more, I can...yeah.”

Dean shudders on the immediate attention to his nipple, and arches his back for the second finger stretching him out.

Sam doesn't interfere with Dean grinding their cocks together. Hitches his hips, actually, to meet him, and Dean can feel him sighing through his teeth. Gets his balls tugged on and curls his toes, still in socks and sneakers. Sweatpants caught on one foot, maybe, it doesn't matter.

Sam's wedging number three in with the others, and Dean finds himself groaning, “Fuck me.”

He gets knuckles.

Shivers, “F-fuck me, sir.”

“That bad?”

“Y-yeah.”

Sam slurs, “How do I deserve you, huh?” muffled against Dean's tit as he slides his cock where he's got Dean hooked on one left-over finger. Puts both hands on Dean's ass and pushes down.

It's a lot, all at once, and Dean's too comfortable to move, or to protest. Gets filled in one long stroke, painfully aware of the softness of his guts that Sam built for himself, truly custom-made at this point.

It's so easy and painless and overwhelming and mortifying that he's shooting before he knows it, insides spasming on their own accord and his hips tilting low to hump his cock against Sam's stomach.

“O—oh shit, oh fuck, S-S-Sam—”

Sam chokes, “One,” and brings all that arm and oblique strength to a good use.

Sam can be a lot. Too much, at times. Not exactly too little, ever. Even if he's quiet, or withdrawn, he manages to take up space with that. Ever-present.

It's calming. A sense of security Dean never thought might be attainable, let alone by someone as unable to commit as him.

Sam eats with perfect manners, ignoring the fact that he is naked and still slick with sweat. Just rinsed off the worst mess before slipping his sweatpants back on, answering the door, setting the table. Dean has yet to really feel his legs, shovels Pad Thai into his face and ponders if he'd rather have Sam showering again before bed or not.

If he's always been like that? With her, too?

Did he used to work out so much? Did he fuck her like he fucks Dean now?

Which brings Dean back to the question—why would they have broken up? (Who would break up with _Sam_?) Why would Sam insist on keeping silence on that entire, huge topic?

It must have been his fault. It must have been. Hurt her or something, one way or the other.

Dean runs his fingers through Sam's hair. Watches that face going slacker by the second, breath evening out so fast he might have blacked out the moment his head touched the pillow.

Smith realizes, then, quietly:

He is not supposed to _know_ about Jessica.

~

Three double espressos apparently work as a panic reduction. Or, Smith can't tell if his heart is beating that fast due to threat of unimaginable agony or due to a caffeinated heart attack.

Either way, he's been aching for this for too many days now to have second thoughts.

Locked himself in, second floor, low-level manager's office Dean is involved in a project with.

Dean types so fast he misspells _Wesson_.

Thinks it's still wrong after correcting it, because nothing seems to pop up, but. It's spelled correctly. Smith frowns with his stomach twisting, his fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Shit. Shit.

This was a mistake. What the hell are you doing?

_Don't stop now._

Wait—wasn't his mom's name Campbell?

Dean types, hits enter.

Hundreds of thousands of results.

Smith rocks back into his chair, hand on his chin. Well. This doesn't make him feel any better yet.

Alright. Time to start digging.

Wikipedia has a respectably sized article about the Campbell empire. John Campbell, weapon industry, stock market, lobby work; the whole nine. It's...not a shock. Dean's guts had a reason to be reluctant about scrutinizing Sam's background.

So, multi-billion dollar empire.

Okay. Alright.

Dean has to sit back, and this wasn't even the information he was out for.

Photos show Mr. Campbell, well-aged, resourceful, prolific. Mid-forties, so: married young, had Sam early.

Dean navigates back to the search engine. Adds 'Samuel' to the family name.

A younger Sam—in suits, in a Stanford sweater, academic dress—stares back at Dean from the screen. Links shine with phrases like 'family heritage' and 'extraordinary results'. 'Graduated early'. 'His professors foresee great talent in young Mr. Campbell'.

Dean clicks on the picture tab.

In the second row, there's a picture of a girl tucked under Sam's arm. Both in Stanford sweaters, both grinning so wide it might be staged if Dean didn't know that Sam would never, ever, agree to make a face just because somebody requires it of him.

The headline going with the article the picture is from reads: 'Campbell Junior asked her the question—and she said yes!'

_Jessica Moore is a stunning, vivid young woman. That's the first thing we notice when we meet up with her. If she is intimidated by all the attention dating a multi-billion dollar successor brings with it? She laughs, tucks her hair back behind her ear. The diamond glistening on her hand makes our interviewer swoon rather unprofessionally._

“ _He protects me like some guard dog. I'll be fine.”_

Dean has to push the chair back and gets up. Paces around the desk, fingers peeling at the cuffs of his shirt. Stands, eventually, eyes to the floor. All blinds on the windows and the door are shut.

Sam loved her.

Sam genuinely, absolutely, loved this girl.

He wouldn't have hurt her. Nobody could hurt a girl like that. (Dean, he's different.)

Sam wouldn't have let her go. No way.

What did you do, Jessica?

Smith is back at the PC, cancels the one to replace it with another name.

Many Jessica Moores, but...none of them seems to be the right one.

Social media—nothing. Photos...no. Only some pictures of paintings in-between faces of Jessica Moores that are nowhere near any Sams. Maybe she's an artist? The article said something about art studies. God. Already feels like Dean read it days ago and facts are starting to fade.

God. Hell. Smith is incredibly tired all of a sudden.

It's all so...devastating? That he didn't know. That there is so, so much about Sam that he had no idea of. And it was just a few mouse clicks away, all this time.

He's aware that the sentiment is childish, but—he's weirdly jealous. Of a girl Sam used to date back in college.

Put a ring on her, too.

If she wouldn't have messed it up, he wouldn't even know you exist.

Smith eventually clears the browser history, shuts down the PC. Leaves the office behind to catch an elevator back up, to his own floor, own office.

He's leaning against the wall. Watches the numbers climb. Has a sick feeling in his stomach, like the threat of the entire thing crashing down together with him doesn't seem so unrealistic at all.

Smith makes himself vomit in the men's room. Brushes his teeth, asks Rhonda for another coffee, black, please.

She glares like Mom would, sometimes. Says, “Sir,” like he's an old man. “Don't you think you've had enough?”

~

Sam's puzzled look makes everything worse.

But Dean's already sinking to his knees and just bows his head. Eyes down, but closed, so he doesn't have to stare at the paddle.

“I made myself sick, earlier,” he mutters. “I deserve it.”

No reaction. And Dean deserves that, too.

Lets himself stew in the humiliation, and hopes he won't have to beg. Because he has a feeling he would.

Eventually, he hears movement. Hears Sam exhaling deep, and stretched.

Hears, “Why did you make yourself sick, Dean?”

“I was. I-I was. I felt sick. Too much for lunch. Sir.”

He feels sick again, right now, on an empty stomach. Won't eat, he decided, until Sam forces it down his throat.

“And you think you deserve to be beaten for that?”

“Yes. Sir.”

“With this?” Dean hears him bend forward, pick up the paddle.

Dean nods tightly. “Yessir.”

“How many?”

“You decide.”

“Indeed,” Sam says. “ _I_ decide. Get up.”

Dean gets to his feet.

“Strip. Put your hands behind your back and grab your elbows, and sit down.”

While Dean does, Sam vanishes into the bathroom. Then into the playroom. Comes back and Dean has his eyes closed yet again, all his focus on the tension in his pose, on Sam, his sounds, his voice.

Dean hears the rope and has to keep away the rush of relief. Of happiness.

Not yet.

Sam ties his arms into position. Steps back.

“Get up.”

Dean does. It's a struggle. It's part of it.

“Bedroom. Knees and face on the bed.”

Dean does.

He feels Sam standing right behind him, and relaxes. Steels himself. Just fall.

“I'm not sure what's going on in your head right now. But I figure you won't tell me, so I won't bother.”

Sam runs his palm over the scars on Dean's lower back. Speaks closely, low.

“You want it to hurt?”

“Yessir.”

“Want to cry?”

“Yeah. Yes.”

Sam's palm comes down hard and sudden, and whips Dean's attention upright.

The next few are just a warm-up.

The slide of the cane over his ass makes Dean jump against his will. He swallows down a sob just to feel the swell of it better.

“If you can take ten of these, you get your paddle. Clear?”

“Yessir.”

The crack of bamboo on flesh muffles what the mattress won't quite soak up.

Dean tries to count, at first, but everything blurs too fast to keep track. Pulls him down, swallows him up, suffocates.

When it stops, Sam huffs, “That was twelve.”

Dean doesn't think he could speak now if he had to. Is trembling, barely holding his position. Sam rubbing it better just makes it worse.

The flat surface of the paddle swipes over the soreness of his ass; feather-light. Yet unused, it's cool to the touch.

Sam hums, softly, “You want it?”

The tears come when Dean sobs his, “ _Yes_.”

He should have asked Sam to tie him down. On that bench, maybe, so he could remain in position despite his legs giving out.

The whacks are smacking Dean forward on the bed. Leave a broad impact, cover so much surface at once. It's satisfying. Overwhelming.

Dean feels nothing, thinks nothing but pain. That's all that exists. That's all he is.

When Sam halts to take a breather, Dean sobs for more. And he gets it: in five lunges.

Takes the last three of them toppled-over, back only arched and held down by the force of Sam's forearm.

When Sam stops this time, Dean doesn't interfere.

Is crying. Barely-breathing into the sheets. Sore and empty, and the rush of It's Over sweeping him off his feet completely.

Floating, nothing but bliss has any right to be.

Dean is marginally aware of Sam climbing off the bed, untying him, putting things back into their respective places. He lets Dean have his time, and Dean is eternally grateful for that. He needed this. Needs this.

Eventually, Sam sits on the edge of the bed. Dean knows because the mattress dipped next to him, but doesn't care to look, or acknowledge that he's not crying all by himself anymore. Sam is quiet as he waits.

Dean is only being touched once he's stopped wailing, has turned his head to the side to take some real breaths. It's Sam's knuckles following the line of his spine, from between shoulder blades down to the scars, and up again.

“Better?”

Dean sniffs embarrassingly wet. “Yeah.”

“Can I lie down with you?”

“Okay.”

Sam lays on his side, careful not to touch too much of Dean. Keeps petting his back.

Some more tears. The silent kind though. Just happening, dripping out of him.

“Can you hug me? Please?”

Sam scoops him up into his arms without comment. Pulls and turns Dean until they're facing each other. It's easier to tuck him against his chest, like this. Dean takes up on the offer and pushes his face into the collar of Sam's shirt. The warmth of his throat.

“I would do anything.”

Feels like a dream, to be saying it. Maybe Dean is dreaming.

“Whatever you want,” he murmurs. Feels his breath hitting him back they're so close, Sam's cologne and shampoo and skin.

Sam strokes his arm. Has the back of his sweat-stuck skull cradled in his palm.

Says, “I know.”

~

It's been two days since Dean last ate. Sam hasn't addressed it yet. Maybe wants Dean to cave in. Wants him to admit. Or, gives him a chance to let it slip, pretend it was never happening in the first place.

Sam hasn't fucked him since that punishment, and Dean is slowly but surely panicking.

He ruined it. Must have.

Disgusting, self-loathing piece of shit. Crawling to him like a maggot.

Dean chugs water like religion.

“You still want to fist me?”

It's the first time Sam's looked at him today. It hurts.

“We can do it,” Smith says. “If you still want to.”

Sam eyes him like a concerned parent. A very strict, but very swamped parent.

Says, “Pet,” without putting his book down, without letting Dean out of sight, “that was a _joke_.”

“Oh.” Oh. “Well, if you...i-i-if you, still, ever want to, w-w-we. I.”

“If you have something to confess, I suggest you get it over with. Now.”

Dean swallows. Feels his chin trembling, and half-suffocates himself with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“I-I-I'm.”

Sam puts his book into his lap.

Dean stutters in as much air as he can.

“Your mom brought her up it wasn't my fault I didn't snoop around or anything okay Sam I j-j-juh-j-just, I can't stop thinking about it and her, a-a-a-an-and you, and—”

“Breathe.”

Dean does. Feels blurry.

“Dean,” Sam says. Closes the book, puts it aside. “Once again. And slow down.”

“She said you were engaged.”

Sam just looks at him.

“Is that—is that true?”

Nothing.

Dean's body swings in place, unable to decide between stepping forward or back away. Between anger and fright.

“God, jus— _say_ something!”

Sam's eyes flicker away for a fragment of a second, then snap back to Dean.

He purses his mouth, sets his jaw.

Inquires, softly, “What did she say?”

“She was—she was just, wondering if you. If you were still seeing her. Involved with her.”

“And you said?”

“That I didn't—God, that I didn't _know_! And I _didn't_ , Sam!”

Sam's eyes are pinning Dean in place.

Dean regrets being this fucking weak.

“Why—why didn't you _tell_ me?”

Sam's mouth hardens further. “You really wanna go there, Dean? Really?”

“I'm not—God! That was—it was different! You were, you were gonna get _married_! What the fuck!”

“Well, I didn't. And it's over; has been for years. So what? You had girlfriends too, didn't you? Weren't you about to marry that chick with the kid, have a fucking _family_ ; you ever hear me bitching about _that_? No, because it's fucking _bullshit_.”

Dean does find his footing now (for better or worse).

Gapes, stunned, at his partner.

“You were really not gonna tell me, weren't you?”

Sam sneers, crosses his legs. Rubs at his chin.

“It's not like I hid it.”

“You're joking.”

“I thought you'd known. And wouldn't care.”

“You—what? How would I have _known_?”

“Oh come on! We did our best to shut the press up but someone as fucking obsessed as you—obviously you'd find _some_ thing. Would pry around like a fucking pig for a truffle.” Scoff. “Just expected you'd be one of the faster pigs.”

“No, Sam; no, you know what—no fucking wonder she didn't wanna spend her life with a fucking _psychopath_!”

There's these moments, very rare, because Smith pays incredible attention to staying in line—but they slip, every so often, and leave him behind in their messes.

This is one of them, and Sam stares back at him with a twist to his face that isn't there, isn't manifesting, but that's palpable despite the few feet of distance between them.

That's locking Dean's muscles, full-on paralysis, and he has to watch Sam jolting to a stand, rushing towards him, reaching for his throat.

Is slammed against the wall, and something falls from the shelves and shatters.

Dean is aware that he's grabbing Sam's arm with both hands as well as he is aware that he has no chance of stopping this.

Can't swallow, or breathe, and loses ground beneath his feet.

Sam leans in, slowly, their cheeks touching, his mouth right up against Dean's ear.

“I want to be very clear about two things with you, Dean. First.”

Dean's chest starts to go tight. He wills his eyes shut.

“If you want to talk about the past, how about you start by sharing how it felt, exactly, to let your best buddy turn you out. Don't go easy on the details.”

Two hands on Dean's throat now, circling, squeezing.

His feet aren't touching the ground anymore.

“Second. I don't like being angry. I really don't. So don't do this to me.”

Sam leans back, and Dean's hardly able to flutter his eyes back open, let alone see. He gags, chokes.

Sam looks from one eye to the other.

“Are we clear?”

Dean tries to spell out, “Yes,” tries to nod, anything.

As Sam plucks one hand off his throat, Dean's heart skips a beat. Sam fists the longer hair on top of his head then, and slams his skull back against the wall.

Dean is then dropped (no, _thrown_ ) to the ground.

Sam grips his hair again, hauls him up by it. Switches to smother Dean, mouth and nose, while the other grabs and tears at his shirt.

Dean is scrambling for air, for that hand. Digs nails in, rips at skin.

(He doesn't mean to, he doesn't.)

“I think someone needs to be reminded how to properly use their mouth.”

Sam drags him into the room. Dean doesn't know how he makes it there, how he's not unconscious, is breathing just as much as Sam will let him, and cowers against the wall Sam presses him up against.

“Do not move.”

Dean's knees almost-buckle when Sam heaves his weight off him. Dean uses the time to haul for air, cough, dry-heave, until Sam is back, forces a dildo-shaped gag into his mouth; buckles it too tight at the back of his head.

The blindfold should be familiar by now, but is terrifying anew. Pulls a whimper up Dean's throat, but the plastic is fat and weighing down his tongue, stretching him out.

“Don't. Hands behind your back.”

Dean thinks he's being tugged anyway. Hears velcro, and feels a fresh wave of sweat.

“That's a boy.” Sam tugs on his shirt. “Come.”

Stumbling. Middle of the room, presumably, where Sam tears at Smith's clothes until Dean is completely bare and shivering.

“Straight back.”

The lizard part of Smith's brain lets him do it.

Sam pats his cheek like one would pet a horse.

“Not so big-mouthed anymore, huh? What do we say, pet?”

Dean really, honestly tries to form the right answer. But the gag prevents him from even clenching his jaw.

“What was that? I didn't hear you.”

Dean huffs and shakes as he tries to muster up the energy to make it happen, but all of this is rhetoric, is pointless; Sam grabs the back of his neck and shakes him.

“Come on, at least try.”

Dean sobs, and Sam kicks into the back of his knees. Wouldn't have needed to use full-force to make him stumble and fall, but did anyway.

Smith meets the floor face-first.

Something cracks, in his mouth, against the plastic gag.

Smith can barely keep himself from throwing up.

Hears Sam rummaging around, inelegantly arranging something (furniture?), and is being heaved up by the buckles strapped around his head.

Sam tosses him onto a flat surface, might be a table. Dean's ties are being unclipped just so his arms can be stretched out, fastened spread-eagle. His ankles get the same treatment.

Smith's head dangles just over the edge of the table. Doesn't help with breathing, or the sharp pain pulsing through his jaw with every too-hasty beat of his heart.

With the gag getting removed, Dean's tongue gets flooded with blood.

Sam's laugh booms within the confinements of the room.

“Oh shit! Well, that kinda sucks? Wait a second. I got you.”

Dean is shaking, pinned tight. Nowhere to go.

Sam wedges a ring gag behind his teeth, reels his jaw wide open; Dean yowls when it clinks against his teeth.

“Shhh-shhh-shhh. It's just chipped, it's your lip that's bleeding. I'll get you an appointment first thing in the morning.”

A gentle touch to Dean's cheek, then the sound of a zipper coming undone.

Dean gulps for one-two-three breaths before Sam sinks his cock down his throat. All the way.

Holds it there for a beat before he starts thrusting, barely peeling out.

Sam pinches Dean's nose shut.

“Sometimes I wonder if you do it on purpose. Making me angry like that. You're getting braver and I'm not so sure I dislike it as much as I probably should.”

Dean's nose is released and Sam pulls out of his throat too. Lets Dean gurgle for air for a moment or three before slamming back in.

It's a weird angle at a rough pace. Dean is retching even prior to Sam putting his hand on his throat to press down, feel himself moving in there.

“You ever snorted a drink on accident, Smith? Maybe orange juice? That one's _mean_.”

Sam pushes until his balls are smushed against Dean's nose. Puts both hands back around Dean's throat, rubs his thumbs over the bulge of his dick, the nub of Dean's Adam's apple.

Dean's body convulses.

“Yeah, there we go. You hate that, don't you?”

Sam lets his hips roll with each word, slowly, indifferent to Dean's horror, his panic, his body's limitations.

“Let it go, pet. No use in fighting.”

He really is drawing it out, now. A slow fuck, lingering, right against the back of Dean's throat.

Once Dean starts to really throw up, Sam pulls out and slaps his hand over Dean's mouth.

Vomit shoots up Dean's sinuses, and the burn, the invasion of it, is nothing he knew before—you can die from this. People died from this before.

You might die here.

“Didn't get rid of that gag reflex just yet, huh. We just gotta keep practicing.”

Sam holds Dean's head and Dean splutters his nose free, hacks up whatever is left in his throat before Sam forces his cock in yet again. Long strokes now, leaving Dean to half-breathe on every other pull-back.

Everything hurts. The stench, the slime of it splattered over his face—it's revolting.

Sam doesn't let go this time when he pinches Dean's nose. Let's him choke until Dean is about to black out, feels it, feels his body fighting, thrashing like a fish on dry land.

Smith doesn't want to die. Not like this.

Oh God.

Dean is bare instinct once he's released. Hears Sam stepping back, finally, while his body struggles to haul in as much oxygen as possible, keep him alive.

Sam scoffs. Sound of skin on skin.

“Fuck orange juice, am I right?”

Gear is being moved, chains clinking, shifting. Dean's brain tries desperately to come back online, to make this stop, find a way to make it better.

“What a mess.”

Sam peels the gag from Dean's mouth. Tosses it across the room. He loosens the buckle for the blindfold, pulls that off as well.

Dean sees him upside-down, staring down at him with cold distance. Shoulders bulging where he's bracing his weight on his arms on either side of Dean's head, worked up to a healthy sweat.

“I could make you slurp it from the floor. Clean it up. But I won't. Because I'm not an asshole. Do I get a 'thank you' for that, pet?”

Smith burp-coughs halfway through his, “Fuck you,” and gets his cheek love-tapped.

Sam laughs, circles the table. Drags his fingertip along the taut line of Dean's body as he goes.

“God, do I love you.”

He undoes Dean's ankles, folds and ties him into a frog-legged position instead; fastens those with a loop around the table. Loosens Dean's wrists just so he can ruck him down the tabletop. Instead of his head, it's his ass hanging off of it now.

Sam vanishes out of sight, somewhere behind Dean.

Says, “Hey, guess what,” and slaps some of Dean's scooped-up vomit back into his mouth. Seals him with his palm first, a broad jaw-clenching mask later.

Dean is tossing his head, and screams.

“Swallow or keep it. Your choice.”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut, tries to keep breathing through the panic, and almost misses the lube-slick fingers corkscrewing into his asshole.

“Jesus. It's like you're not getting fucked at all. How do you _do_ that?”

Prep takes up the bare minimum amount of time. Dean pretends not to be here, pretends not to feel any of it as Sam enters him, uses him.

Dean is getting his legs bent down farther. Until it hurts, and then some.

Everything aches, and itches, and pounds.

Dean is delirious. What a bad dream. Whimpers into the ungiving leather of the mask, water-bile-coffee vomit sloshing lukewarm behind his teeth.

Sam smacks him in the face. “Aw, what's that, huh? You gonna cry? 'S that it?”

Sam smacks him again. “Cry as much as you want. You did this to yourself.”

Yeah, he knows, he knows; but _God_.

He just wants it to stop.

Sam eventually climaxes. Groans through it, animalistic and loud and sickening. He catches his breath with his forehead pressed into Dean's sternum.

Dean holds on, holds out. Tries to keep it together staring at the ceiling, still shaking from the shock. Almost. Almost.

When all four limbs are unleashed, Smith shoots upright upon Sam turning his back. Is too slow though, apparently; Sam gets a hold of him, presses him back down.

Dean bucks, tears at the mask.

Sam chokes him, again.

“Nuh-uh-uh. _Stay_. Bad boy. You want this off? Then stay still.”

They glare at each other through Sam unbuckling the mask. Dean gets ready to spit—but Sam clamps his hand right back over his mouth.

Sam clicks his tongue.

“Swallow.”

Dean's nostrils flare wide in panic, hands wringing Sam's forearm so brutally the flesh is going pale with pressure. Sam doesn't seem to mind.

Sam's free hand goes to pinch Dean's nose shut.

“You're not going anywhere.”

Under athletic circumstances, Smith would be proud of his performance. He isn't exactly the perfect diver. There's only so many panic attacks you can have to think you do well with a little less air than normal.

Dean thrashes, full-power. Sam holds him down like he's but a child.

Sam is dripping sweat by the time the real spasms are going on.

“Do yourself a favor,” he grits, “and get it over with.”

Dean swallows.

Sam releases him almost immediately after, and Dean scrambles to sit up, to tear the mask off his face. He almost falls off the table lunging forward and throwing everything right back up on the floor.

A distant part of Smith feels the hit to his face, feels his lip splitting some more. Feels the pull on his hair, his scalp, the impact on his hands and knees when he meets the ground.

Sam sniffs, out of breath.

“Shit. What a mess.”

Dean has his eyes closed, can't feel a thing with how bad he is shaking.

They get him upright. Sam pushes him against a wall, holds his wrists so Smith's arms are wedged between their bodies.

Dean tries to hold eye contact, he really does.

“Clean yourself. Then kneel in front of the bed and wait for me.”

Dean blinks, jerks his head. Is crying, again, but Sam doesn't mention it.

Dean does as he is told. Almost-slips in the bathtub. His mouth seems to have stopped bleeding.

Pajamas; bottom drawer. Dean slips the fine cotton on. The comfort is instant, but he just can't stop shaking.

Dean kneels, in front of the bed. Hands in his lap, he waits for a while. Hears scrubbing, next-door. His eyes are drooping. Just for a second, he allows it. But his head keeps lolling, keeps waking him. He puts his arms on the bed, rests his head atop. Just for a second.

A rough tug on his hair pulls him back awake.

It's dark outside. Had it been dark outside before?

“What's this supposed to be? 'S that how you kneel?”

Smith straightens his spine, shoulders back, eyes up to Sam even though he's not supposed to but he has to.

“Sorry, sir.”

“And did I say anything about putting clothes on? _Did_ I?”

“No, sir.”

“Then why the hell are you dressed?”

“I'm sorry, sir.”

“Strip. And don't open that mouth again until I tell you to.”

It's an ordeal to take off the warm layers, pull them off his limbs, his pounding head.

Sam tosses him a pillow and a blanket that hit him in the face. Smith gathers both items in his arms, incredulous, and looks up at Sam who is making himself comfortable in their bed.

Hears, “Sleep.”

Part of Dean wants to say something. The part responsible for keeping him alive doesn't.

Unbelieving, he can't do much but sit and stare.

“What? You think you can act like some brat and I'll just put up with it?” Sam sits up halfway just so he can point at the spot right next to Dean, fix Dean with his glare. “ _Sleep_.”

He won't give up until Dean does what he's told, so, Dean begins to arrange a makeshift bed with what he has been given. Hears the sheets rustling: Sam laying down.

The blanket is too small to be both under and over him. Everything hurts. Dean throws a longing look to his discarded pajamas.

He lies down facing the bed frame. Blinks at it, shivers, pulls the blanket tighter around himself.

It would be easy to just...stand up. Get dressed. Leave.

You have your own place. It's not like the alternative is sleeping under a bridge. You have a nice bed, actually. You prefer your mattress over his.

But coming back, that would be a whole different story.

Sam probably wouldn't even let you in.

Exhaustion pulls Dean under.

~

The room is never pitch black. Street lights and moon provide just enough to see silhouettes. So, Dean's eyes are probably not what they used to be.

“C'mere. Baby, hey.”

Dean climbs to where he is being pulled, uncoordinated and slipping but he is being held. It's warm here, and soft.

He sighs his relief, huddled close, wrapped in blankets and Sam.

Kisses to the crown of his head. Sam's warm hands rub his cold, stiff shoulder.

“Good boy.” Yeah. Yes, he is. “I had to do it. You know that, right?” Yes. Of course. “Shhh. You sleep now. I got you.”

 


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for minor dental surgery.

Sam nudges him awake. Is already dressed, hair done. It's not that bright outside just yet.

“You wanna eat something before the dentist? It's six. Your appointment's at seven thirty.”

Dean blinks, confused. Why would he...?

Oh.

“Uh, I'm good.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“You wanna sleep some more? I'll wake you in time.”

“Nah. No, I'm—I'll get up.”

“John will get you there. He'll drop me off at CS on the way.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Dean hefts himself up, gets a gentle pat on the shoulder before Sam vanishes (presumably for breakfast, the newspapers). He remains sitting on the bed in his blanket cocoon for awhile. The longer he takes mental notes of what happened, how he is feeling, the more he can feel the shaking return.

A hot shower should do the trick. He takes his time; and yeah, a little better. He goes through the whole nine—shave, peeling, serum, lotion. Trims and plucks his eyebrows. Cuts his nails.

His upper lips curls down protectively. 

Smith has to face away from the mirror to brush his teeth. He simply avoids the upper front. 

The tooth doesn't seem to hurt, but the cut on his lip has swollen and bruised overnight. It's not a pretty sight. Smith dabs some concealer over the shiner. He looks okay.

Undershirt, button-down, light gray suit, black suspenders.

Sam smiles up at him from the financial pages.

“Looking good.”

“Thanks.”

Dean pours himself some coffee. Hesitates just before he touches the cup to his mouth—sips very carefully.

“Does it hurt?”

“No.”

“You wanna get your lip checked out? If it needs stitches or something?”

“I dunno. Should I? It's not bleeding anymore.”

“Hm.” Sam gets up. “Let me see.”

Dean keeps one hand on the kitchen counter while the other holds his coffee. He turns so Sam can reach him better. His stomach clenches upon being crowded in, Sam reaching out for him, but he keeps that down, to himself.

Sam peels at his mouth, and Dean's head jerks back without his say-so.

“Hurts bad?”

“No,” he promises, and forces his head to keep still.

Sam cups his jaw with both palms and very carefully pushes his lip up with his thumbs.

Sam frowns concernedly.

Dean is glad he didn't eat.

“You should be fine,” he decides. Lets the lip be, strokes Dean's chin. “Belz is gonna make you good as new. Promise.”

“Mh-hm.”

“It's really not that bad, Dean.”

“Can we—can we s-s-stop. Talking about it?”

“Sorry. Yeah, of course.”

Sam runs his hands to Dean's shoulders, arms, squeezes consolingly. Is smiling in Dean's peripheral, but Dean prefers blinking into his coffee.

In the car, when Sam tries to kiss him goodbye, Dean turns his cheek. Sam climbs out without further comment, and Dean is alone with untethered panic. 

He could as well has the word 'failure' tattooed on his forehead.

'Disfigured'.

He's sweated through his jacket by the time he's at the reception.

“Uh, Dean Smith. I believe I was referred by...”

“Mr. Wesson?”

“Yes.”

“Of course. Go right through, please.”

It's a picture book doctor's office. Dean didn't expect anything different. The assistants look like models, and the paintings are genuine.

Dr. Belz strides in with a welcoming smile and speaks with an Arabian accent. Bald, glasses, wedding ring, white coat, obviously top of the rack comfort shoes. He reaches out; they shake hands.

“Mr. Smith. Good morning.”

“Morning.”

“Samuel sent you here for an emergency case?”

“Unfortunately. Yeah.”

“Ah, I see.” He reaches out, but doesn't touch. “May I?”

Dean approves, and the doc lifts his split lip just so.

“Ah, yes. I see. I see. Well!” He lets Dean be, smiles at him. Gestures for him to take a seat on the treatment chair while he goes to wash his hands. “No big problem here, Mr. Smith. We will fix you right up. Not even your mother will know the difference.”

Dean offers a humored (but really not humored at all) laugh. “Good. Uh, great.”

“If you look right here—”

Dean does take a look at the mirror before he realizes it is one.

“—this small piece of the central right incisor chipped off. We will apply a procedure called bonding to fill it right back in. Are you not feeling okay?”

“I'm—I hadn't. Looked at it. Before.”

“Ah, it's not that bad really. One hour and you'll be as good as new. You don't need to worry, not at all. Lie back, relax.” He pats Dean's clammy hand. “Bad experiences with dentists? Would you like to take something to ease the anxiety?”

“Uh, no. No drugs. I'm fine. I'll be fine. Sorry.”

“You got it, son.”

“Uh, how much—how much is this gonna be?”

Doc Belz smiles with the most perfect row of teeth Dean's ever laid his eyes on. “Don't worry about it. Samuel's got you covered.”

Throughout the procedure, Dean tries his desperate best to stay calm. Not get his hopes up while also telling himself it will be okay, he said it will look just like before, he's a good doc, Sam wouldn't set you up with anything but the very best.

Looking in the mirror takes so much of him nevertheless.

“What do you say?”

Belz is proud. And he has all right to, Dean figures.

Still.

“Is everything alright?”

“I'm, uh, yeah. It's—good. Looks good. Thank you.”

The doc leaves him with the mirror while washing up his work space. Time passes. Dean is seen out, gathers his coat, his suitcase, and leaves the doctor's office. John is waiting with the car. Asks if he wants to go to work today, says Sam said to give him a call if not, he'd arrange everything. Dean assures he's fit enough for the office.

All hunger is gone. Replaced with an empty buzz, helpless sickness. He can't have coffee with the fresh resin; it would stain. Will have to be cautious about his coffee consumption in general.

He has to drink something. Water. Knows, feels he has to. But can't. The thought of anything touching the broken tooth is enough to stave Smith off.

An alien particle is now part of his body.

It will last three up to ten years. Has to be redone, then. And again. And again. And again. Forever. For the rest of his life.

Dean smears vaseline on his lips, his cuticles. His tongue lies warm in his mouth, a swollen, dry lump he doesn't move if he can help it.

A last meeting at five thirty. Smith skips the gym and goes straight home. Strips away the tie, the suspenders, the pants, and climbs into bed.

Breathing is exhausting.

You should drink something—no.

The doorbell rings. Smith squints at the alarm clock; eight ten.

Getting up has him dizzy immediately, and then he's just—light. Rubs at his face as he waddles to answer the door, let Sam in.

“How are—wow.”

Dean ignores the rudeness, gestures him to come inside. Slumps down on his sofa, only half-awake. Hears Sam managing plastic bags, smells take-out and prepares himself to deliver some kind of excuse for why he isn't gonna have any. 

“You look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

“You didn't answer your phone.”

“Was sleeping.”

Dean opens his eyes to a glass of water right in front of his face.

Hears Sam barking, “Drink.”

Dean pushes that hand away. “I'm good.”

“No. You look like you're about to pass out. _Drink_.”

“I'm, Jesus. I'm not a baby...”

“Does your tooth hurt?”

Dean can't look at him.

“Is that it? Is that what's going on? Dean.” A hand on Dean's shoulder, jostling him. “Talk to me.”

Dean swats the hand away. “I'm good. For fuck's sake. Cut it out.”

“Belz said you can have soft foods. So,” Sam stalks back to the kitchen table and pulls out their dinner. “I brought you some soup. Pudding for dessert. Real food. No baby food, I figured you'd hate that.”

“I'm not hungry.”

It hurts, to see Sam so desperate. So careful. Because that means he's sorry, which means this is bad. That this is actually, really bad.

Sam throws his head back, flings his arms to collide to his sides. Rushes his exhale. Dean imagines hearing teeth grind.

Hears, “Dean,” like a plea.

“You can eat, if you want. I don't mind.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Dean shrugs. “I'm tired.”

“It's not gonna go away. You can't fucking out-sleep starvation, you fucking moron.”

Dean blinks wearily over the noise of Sam struggling with the kitchen drawers. Sees a spoon, a straw, clutched hard in Sam's palm, and doesn't have the energy to do much more than scrunch his nose. His heart skips. Stupid body.

“You're gonna eat,” says Sam. Sits right next to him, bowl of soup held out to Dean.

Dean can't take his eyes off it, but he also can't unclasp his hands from his knees.

After a while, then: “You know I will make you do this, right?”

Clear vegetable broth, no chunks. Tiny grease drops floating atop. A salty, rich aroma. Parsley.

“Do you hear me?”

“Hm.”

“I'll feed you with this spoon. Or you drink it with this straw. That's your options.”

Dean leans back, away. 

Sam follows. Hikes one leg up the sofa to turn easier.

“Of course,” he murmurs, “I could force-feed you. With a tube. And the only tube in this place is the enema kit one. Is that what you want, Dean?”

Dean hesitates.

“You know I'll do it if I have to.” Then, “Fuck.” Desperate, hair-tossing. “Don't fucking make me do this.”

Dean's fingers gingerly go to pick up the plastic straw. The bowl of soup immediately is held under his mouth. 

He fumbles to dip the straw in, has it pinched between his fingers, but freezes here, again.

“C'mon.” Whispered. Close. “Almost there. C'mon, baby. Please.”

Dean tucks the straw into the farthest corner of his mouth. Clenches it with the very farthest of his molars, so deep nothing will flood the front of his mouth, his teeth.

Sam doesn't let up until the third sip. Leans his forehead on Dean's shoulder, then.

Sighs, so loud Dean can barely contain himself.

A warm (not hot) gush. Behind his breastbone, and pooling lower.

It takes forever, but the bowl ends up eventually empty. Sam hurries to grab the pudding.

“I can—water it down? So you can sip it? Like a yogurt drink. Except that it's...pudding.” A helpless chuckle, eye contact. No reaction, but he just does what he suggested. Uses almond milk from the fridge though instead of water. The fucking devil.

Dean sips dutifully. Gets his shoulder rubbed, his arm. Feels even more tired now, and cold.

Sam just holds him, for a while. Doesn't eat, and his dumplings must be cold by now. Tucked over-around Dean, he's so docile. Dean almost feels bad.

“God. I hate it when you go this fucking inept on me.” Yeah. Almost. 

“Shouldn't have bashed my teeth in then.”

Sam doesn't talk back, just nudges his head harder into Dean's nape.

He requests to see it. In the bathroom. Dean genuinely feels childish, curls his lip down again and glares.

Sam holds his palms up in defeat. “Alright. Alright. Another time.”

“He did a good job,” is all Dean feels like offering.

~

Sam filled the entirety of Smith's workout bottle collection with smoothies. Or, _a_ smoothie. It's one huge batch—banana almond peanut butter.

Okay. How the fuck do you talk yourself out of that.

“Mh,” Dean says. “S'good.”

“Yeah?”

Dean nods, takes another sip. Tries not to think. Has all concentration zeroed in on not letting the straw touch his teeth.

He's full after half the bottle. Sam insists on him taking another two to work. Dean agrees out of sheer laziness. He's too fucking tired to start a fight before work.

His lip is healing quite alright. The shiner has reached its full potential—a dark reddish purple spreading up to his cheek. Smith rubs lotion in, dabs concealer on.

Slips the tip of his tongue over the resin, once, and hurries out of the bathroom soon after that.

~

It's pretty much like a baby bottle.

Not-baby-food his ass.

“No.” Frown, push-off. Smith cradles his 'dinner' closer, glares harder. “I'm gassy.”

Sam scoffs, but seems to give up. Sinks from plank into laying down, face buried in Dean's lap until he is shoved away from there too.

Grumbles, “You're not,” and Dean slaps him on the back of his head at the, “didn't hear anything all night.”

Dean makes an attempt to scoot away, but Sam holds onto his leg.

They glare at each other for a moment, and seriously, “What the fuck, Sam.”

“Not even a kiss?”

Dean snarls and turns over. Frowns at the TV just so he doesn't get The Puppy Eyes.

“We can just cuddle.”

“Nah, thanks.”

Sam sighs. It shouldn't be so flattering to be able to frustrate him so much.

~

Sam stands in front of the bed for a while, staring into the void. Like he came into the room to do something specifically but forgot what that was.

Says, eventually, “I jerked off in your shower.”

Dean squints through the semi-darkness. “Good for you.”

“No,” mumbles Sam, still kinda lost. “I feel like a twelve year old. This is stupid.”

“You can do whatever you want, man. It's a free country.”

Sam climbs into bed, under the covers. Big-spoons up against Dean, and Dean doesn't push him off.

It's a noisy lot of grunting and shuffling, but they settle eventually.

It's deafening quiet. The clock from the living room ticks not far enough away.

Nose tucked into Dean's nape, Sam mutters, “Do you hate me?”

Dean scoffs. Buries the urge to kick for a shin.

“Wouldn't hold it against you.”

“Oh come on, now.”

“I didn't mean for it to happen. I lost it.”

“I don't wanna talk about it.”

“Sorry.”

Dean doesn't accept the apology, and Sam doesn't push the issue. Is clingy and out of the loop, not much different from Smith, except that there can't be two clingy parts in this scenario, so he's gotta soldier through. Somehow.

“...Do _you_ hate me?”

“No.” Sam's arms curl tighter. Dean can feel his breath on his skin, warm and close. “Not ever.” Sighs, “God,” and, “you're the only reason I get out of bed in the morning.”

Oh Jesus.

Dean shouldn't be blushing.

“E-even though. Even though I'm— _inept_.”

“I shouldn't have called you that.”

“Nah, no. I mean, it's. You're not wrong.” 

The last thing in the world Dean wants to do right now is to not cling right back. Not curl into Sam's embrace, not turn around and forgive and forget. But he can't, and he won't. Not now. Not until—hell, he's not that far with his plans yet.

He swallows. Shuts his eyes.

“Whatever you are,” hums Sam, “I'm a million times that. And worse. But you're staying. With me. And I don't know why. I never thought I'd meet someone like that.” 

Smith blinks warily at the window. 

Don't fucking touch him.

“With Jess, it was,” and Dean's hands itch to grab him by the throat, “similar. Or, I thought that... I really thought we were—good. But _you_.” Dean can feel him smiling. “God. When I met you. I felt it. That it had to be you.”

Dean doesn't know what to reply, and Sam doesn't end up adding another word.

~

The rational part of Dean's brain is aware that he is the one denying Sam. But the much louder, much less rational part won't shut up about how easily Sam lets him put his foot down.

There hasn't been anything going on between them for two weeks now. A new record. All-time low, so to say, not counting their 'break'.

Dean's stomach gets sick over the dilemma of being too thin and not thin enough to be attractive at all.

Jessica was skinny. Tall. Somewhat of a rounder face though, but they were younger in the photos, hard to tell how she'd look now. If Sam would look her way at all if they were to run into each other now.

Sam likes him bulky. Or, bulky-er. But Dean dropped a good five pounds and is really, really starting to obsess.

Over Sam's face. And arms. And lips. And ass, and dick.

Dean Smith is starving. Ironically, while being faced with so so much abundance.

The thing with pride and an iron will is that abandoning them is even more painful than actually maintaining them.

Dean plays it through, in his head. In the car, on their drive to work. Just jamming his hand in between Sam's legs, feeling the heft of it through his slacks. How Sam's mouth would drop open or snap small; depending on how riled up he might be. Would be careful at first, nudging their mouths together, would tremble a hesitant, “Is this okay?” and Dean would growl and kiss his reply, would not think about the tooth at all, wouldn't fucking mind it for a single second.

Reality-Smith stares out the window, with his legs crossed, and his tongue endlessly scraping over the resin-chunk glued to his incisor.

If Sam would touch him. Just a little. He could give in. That would be okay; forgivable. He's only a man, after all. Would let Sam feel him up after the shower, in pajamas and soft and warm and sleep-easy. Would let him slide his hands into the waistband of his shorts, feel how fast Dean would be so hard. Wouldn't let him fuck his ass, not during that first night. Would let him play with his cock, jack him off nice and slow. Would return the favor, maybe. If Sam wanted his mouth, they'd take that to bed—comfortable, and close, and Smith might want to hold hands while he'd be trying to stave off the panic attack, wrap his poor tooth in his lip so good, it would be safe, it would be okay.

Reality-Smith showers alone. Lifts his lip to check how the scar is doing (fine, actually). Prods around his cheekbone, see if—despite having long faded—the bruise is still in there. It isn't.

Reality-Smith observes his reflection. Naked, he turns, head craned so he can watch. Pinches at skin. Runs fingertips over protruding bones. His hair is still damp.

Sam's head snaps up like some dog's. Blinks up at Dean, straight into his eyes.

Smith fingers at the sleeve hem of his sweater. Gestures down his legs, his exposed crotch, but Sam (bless him) won't break the eye contact.

“Can you wax, like. All of this? It's getting outta hand and I hate it.”

Sam nods, “Okay,” and Dean swears those eyes go a little wetter.

Dean walks ahead. Sits on the edge of the tub while he waits for Sam to gather the supplies he had stashed here, at Dean's place, a long time ago. Didn't end up making use of it until now.

Sam is still in his button-down, his slacks. Sinks to his knees so fluidly, onto the still-damp bathroom tiles, and Dean can see him politely avoiding staring at Dean's hard-on.

“Balls first? So the rest won't hurt as much?”

Dean hums his consent and spreads his legs.

Watches Sam just sitting there, on his haunches, taking a deep breath with his eyes zeroed in on Dean's right knee. Hands braced on his own knees. Dean can see the veins on the back of his hands from up here.

“Wanna keep the sweater on?”

“Yeah.”

“You'll be sweating.”

“That's alright.”

“Okay.”

They've done this many times now. Sam is professional about it, close to clinical. He's always quiet through it. A true zen moment. A ritual, really.

Dean's body wants to arch into the touches. Wants to strain forward, get his cock in Sam's mouth. He'd let him. He'd do it.

The pain is like nothing else. Makes Dean's neglected stomach lurch, and he has to grab the edge of the tub hard, dig his toes into the tiles so he doesn't jump up. Clenches his teeth without thinking, then realizes, but. Nothing happened.

The tooth is okay. You're okay. 

He stares down at Sam, out of breath already. Definitely teary-eyed, but that's just a normal physical reaction.

Sam hurries to get the next patch ready, still on his knees.

Dean lifts his sweater, raises and lowers and turns his legs like Sam's hands guide him to. His cock is dripping by the time Sam's flattening a patch across his pubic bone. Has to dip Dean's cock down with his thumbs to get at that skin at all.

Sam's forehead is pearling with sweat. He hasn't looked Dean in the eye since they started.

A groan on the rip-off, followed by a hiss. Sam presses his palm down over the freshly bared skin, soothes it.

Dean lets his head loll. His arms are shaking from holding on, holding him upright.

God, just _do_ something already.

“Would be easiest if you...”

“Yeah, I know.”

Dean hefts himself up. Steps next to Sam, where there is enough space for him to kneel down, get on all fours.

Head hanging, eyes closed, he arches his back. Feels the sweater hanging off him, the air hitting the soaked warmth on his belly, his chest.

Sam doesn't seem to be moving. 

“Uh, this okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry.”

Fuck you. Fuck you.

He hears him shuffling around. Feels hands running up his buttocks, grazing the numb knobs of his scars. Hears Sam not-breathing, and puckers his asshole up upon having his cheeks spread.

Sam holds him like that for a moment too long to justify it.

“Can you, uh.” Sam hesitates to clear his throat just like he hesitates to let go of Dean. “Can you hold it open, please?”

Dean puts his cheek to the tiles and reaches behind himself. Pulls himself not wider than necessary and wishes he could spot something like shame somewhere inside of this Dean Smith.

It's all over too soon.

Dean can feel him staring. Is too shy to make his hole wink, but does clench upon a wave of need, pearls out another drop of precome; can feel it.

“Your, uh. Your pits too?” 

Sam mumbles that with his hands going back on Dean's ass. Runs them all over, bumps them along Dean's fingers still digging into what still is a testimony of his dedication for squats. (Dean knows. He checked.)

“God,” Sam groans. “Fuck. Sorry. I'm not...”

“Do you wanna stop?”

Rushed, “No,” and, more carefully, “you gotta take that off though, if you...”

Without lifting his head from the floor, Dean goes to grab the hem of his shirt. Pulls it up until he can tug it off, and it's not graceful, and it doesn't have to be.

Sam's hands are there immediately. Fly up his back, his ribcage, and down again; hooked into his hips and he pulls him back, is up on his knees apparently because he's draping over Dean now, held breath and yeah, God yeah.

Hears, “Dean,” and reaches behind-over his head to get a hold of Sam's hair, arches hard to grind his ass back into the hard line of Sam's cock with the thin thin layer of Sam's slacks between them still.

Dean Smith grunts into the perfect white of his bathroom tiles that the owner of this place chose wisely.

Dean Smith's knees are gonna be a bitch tomorrow.

Hears, “Is this okay?,” and melts right into the impatient heat of the palm wrapping around his cock.

Slurs, “Uh-huh,” already fucking Sam's hand, shivering upon Sam's mouth finally coming down on his skin; then teeth, then tongue, and Dean would chase that trickle of spit if he could reach his shoulder with his mouth at all.

Sam pulls him over, keeps biting, keeps fisting his cock. Dean's leg twitches, an almost-kick that wouldn't have gotten anywhere, and it's not like he wants to fight, he just cannot keep still. Whimpers when Sam stays on one spot for too long, hears, “Sorry,” and gets the bite licked.

Dean gets his hand tugged away at the wrist when he starts fumbling with Sam's pants.

“Don't take it out unless you want it up your ass.”

Smith goes to rub along Sam's arm instead, then. Cranes his neck when Sam stretches his own, meets him halfway. The kiss is almost too gentle. So slow Dean feels like crawling out of his skin.

Hears, “Close?” while staring into Sam's eyes; nods. Rakes his fingers through Sam's hair, is still grinding down against his lap.

“You wanna come, here? Now?”

Smith can barely swallow. “Yeah.”

Sam kisses him again. Licks along the inside of Dean's lip, over the chipped tooth, doesn't pause his hand for a single beat.

The spasm are hard, and Sam pulls back from the kiss to let Dean groan his heart out. The mess, though, is minimal. There's only so much protein Dean's body has readily available these days.

Coming down, it becomes painfully clear how hard and cold the floor is. How Dean's shoulder and hip dig straight into tile. He shivers, his dick idly twitching in Sam's just as idle stroke. Is being nuzzled, and kissed. Feels the faint burn of bites, of freshly waxed skin, and it all blurs together with the deep satisfaction of having this back.

“You wanna go to bed?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay. Here, let me—there you go. Slow.”

Dean nods. Waddles in tow. Sinks to lie down as soon as they reach the bed, and Sam lets him go just as long as it takes him to pull a fresh sweatshirt from the dresser. He tugs it over Dean's head for him, helps him with the arms.

“You get cold so easy now.”

“Eh, I'm fine. What about you?”

“What about me? Oh.” Sam dimples up for the hand cupping his semi. Assures, “I'm fine. If you're not up to it, that's okay. Step by step.”

Dean frowns and keeps fondling him. “It's not like I don't—y'know.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Get you off.” Smile, because Sam all pliant and warm in his hand is just too familiar, too comforting.

Sam doesn't tell him off when Dean unzips his pants, now.

“Is a blow job okay?”

“If you want to. Sure.”

Mouth-first, not much preamble. He laves his tongue around the head, hands on Sam's thighs for the connection. It's quiet. Drowsy. Sam treads from one foot to the other every now and then, ruffles Dean's hair. Dean is almost-not thinking about the tooth, forces himself to focus on the texture, the taste, the smell filling his mouth instead. His stomach starts rumbling halfway through, and he cringes while Sam chuckles, pets his head.

“Let's head out for dinner after this, yeah?”

Dean lets him finish down his throat.

~

“Brother,” Benny drawls, exceptionally soft. “Can I ask you something?”

Dean raises his face out of his protein shake, withstands the need to rub at his eye. “Uh, yeah. Sure. What?”

Benny smiles, and taps his forefinger against the side of his throat. Doesn't say anything else, and Dean doesn't understand. Until he does.

His palm slaps over the curve of his neck. He feels sick instantly. Benny laughs. “I didn't know you were datin'. Let alone a vampire.”

“I'm, I, t-this is n-not.” Dean's tongue stumbles. He swallows against the urge to throw up all over the gym counter.

“Hey, I didn't wanna make you feel uncomfortable. You don't have to talk about it if you don't wanna. You know I'm not judgin'.”

Dean still keeps his hand over his neck. Fidgets with his apparently too low-cut collar, but it won't cover him up like he needs it to.

Dean offers, muffled, “It's complicated.”

Benny pats his shoulder. Tells him, “Yeah, you're the type for that.”

 


	25. Chapter 25

 

The fish had been good. Lies in his stomach like a boulder now, sure, but to his own surprise he doesn't feel anywhere as sick as he assumed he would. The whiskey aids.

Sam suggested to go for drinks afterwards, so they molded themselves into the farthest corner of this place. It's a busy night. They have their own bottle, their own sphere. The clientele is young and expensive. Fun to observe.

“Do you have a type?”

Smith looks over at his boyfriend (young, expensive), and fails to find a threat in his expression. They're both on a good way to getting unflatteringly wasted on a weekday night. “What kinda question is that, huh.”

“A simple one.” Sam runs his glass along his mouth, one of those subconscious habits Dean never points out to him so he can have it forever. “What kinda girl makes your dick hard?”

“Oh boy.” Dean bubbles with one short laugh. Takes another sip, glances around the crowd.

“Her?” Sam's voice is low; not as sexually loaded as it could be. Discreet rather than a tease. “Blue dress, black heels?”

Dean sizes her up. Ponders. Decides, “Black dress, black heels.” He lets Sam take her in, make whatever assumptions. It's not like Dean could stop him. “I guess I like brunettes. Now that I think about it. Not too thin, not too thick.” He chuckles. More whiskey. “I guess I'm—I'm rather easy to impress.” Checking in on Sam, he's still eyeing the girl. Dean shifts on his lounge chair. “And, uh, what about you?”

Sam mutters, “Blondes,” and raises his glass and the corners of his mouth for the girl who's finally caught him staring a hole into her very low-cut back. She seems flattered, but turns back to her date.

“Heh. You know what they say. A man's always gonna look for his mother in other women.”

“Oh, I dunno. Is that so?”

“Well, your mother's blonde.”

The way Sam turns to look at him makes Smith want to bite his tongue off. “I'd love to meet _your_ mom one day. I'm sure she's so lovely.” Pinch-small mouth. “She blonde too? Like your sister?”

“No, she.” Smith's mouth tumbles. He gathers himself, hopes he doesn't pale out like he feels like. “She's, she's a brunette, actually.”

Sam just smiles, drinks. There's enough salt in that wound as it is, and Smith fidgets again, straightens his dress shirt, clears his throat, refills his glass.

“You were with her for a while. That one girl.”

“Uh, you mean Lisa?”

“Yeah,” dismissive gesture, “whats-her-name. The one with the kid.”

“Couple'a years, yeah.”

“What was that like?”

Dean sets the bottle down, sits back. Frowns, crosses his leg back over the other. “What do you mean?”

Sam shrugs. There's a slur starting to show, or maybe that's just because Sam lets his head loll like that. “The sex. Having a kid.” 

“Those are two very separate questions, man.”

“Okay, let me rephrase—was she good? How often did you guys do it in a week?”

“She used to be a yoga teacher, so.” Dean shrugs, smiles the smile of a happy fool.

Sam laughs. “That's kinda hot.”

“Absolutely.” More whiskey. “We went at it a lot, at first. Y'know, the first few months, heart-shaped glasses an' all that.” He remembers it, her. Her laugh, her eyes, her hands. He smiles. “She was great. I didn't deserve her.”

“Was she upfront about the kid?”

“Oh, yeah. On the first date, straightaway. It kinda freaked me out? But I was just happy to have any kind of contact with _any_ girl again.”

“You mean, after college.”

Dean nods, looks at Sam, then into his drink. Scratches along his temple, nods again. 

“That must have been hard on you.”

Dean shrugs, pinches a smile into his mouth. Cradles his drink with both hands, now. “She was great. I was super nervous about everything at first, but she was really supportive. I mean, of course I didn't tell her, but.”

“Of course not.”

Dean glares, but ends up deflating with a sigh. Takes another sip. Scans the crowd. The world is tipping nicely, softly.

He turns to look at Sam, and finds him looking at him. Tries, gently, “You wanna talk about Jessica?”

Sam's eyes slide away shortly before jumping back on Dean, trying hard to focus. “Not really. Why.”

“I thought that's what's happening here.” Dean tries it carefree, easy-going. Smiles, widely, to show Sam that he means no harm. “Us, talking about our girls.”

Sam scoffs, turns to look at the crowd, takes a hefty gulp from his glass. Swirls it in his hand, peers at what's left in it. “Girls,” he echoes. “I mean, I could tell you about that girl I was seeing for a few months who liked dicking me in parking lots.”

Dean's frown and confusion make a reappearance. All he can get out is, “Parking lots?”

“Or parks. Restrooms. She wasn't picky,” Sam shrugs. He gestures between his legs to suggest a decently sized dick. “Strap-ons. It was super weird. She was so tiny, it was hard to find positions where she could—”

“Okay, okay, wait, stop.” Dean holds his arms up in defeat, and Sam stills halfway in motion to reenact. “That is sick, and I don't wanna hear it.”

Sam laughs too loud to be decent. “You're so fun. Is it that gross to you?”

“I don't wanna hear about your sexcapades, okay?”

“Hey, I was serious with her.” A sleazy smirk, half-sip. “You don't let someone pound your ass unless it means something.”

“Sam, stop.” His skin crawls. The buzz turns sour, quickly. 

Sam backs up, mutters, “Sorry, geez. Whatever,” and Dean shouldn't have provoked him.

“I shouldn't have asked about her.”

“What?”

“I shouldn't have brought up your _ex_ ,” he says, again, louder, sharper, and the chatter and laughter around them is suddenly so much more invasive, almost to the point where it makes his ears ring. “You're obviously still broken up about her, and I'm not supposed to ask, so whatever, Sam.”

Frown now. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, you just—look, let's just finish this and head home, okay? This place is so fucking crammed I can't even hear myself think.”

Sam sets his drink down and struggles to a stand. “You know what? Let's leave right the fuck now. No need to worsen your mood any more, right?”

“Sam—”

“No,” he insists. Grabs his coat, and Dean gets up to help him into it. “I'm—shit, I can do this myself, I'm not—leave it!”

Some heads turn at the turmoil six feet four of coat and anger issues cause just by making their way towards the door, through the lot of people. Smith staggers, half-mutters apologies, follows. Sam is standing outside, at the curb, and Dean grabs him by the elbow, his own coat still unbuttoned and letting the cold-damp spring air seep in. Traffic is heavy, loud and close.

“Can you at least—what the fuck, are you crying?”

“I'm not.”

Dean tries not to stare, or worsen the situation, or get them run over so close to the busy street. He steps back, and Sam lets himself get pulled along. Dean flags down a cab for them and Sam gets in first, sniffles a few times and Dean doesn't look at him, grants him that much privacy. He stares out the window instead, tries to keep his vision from spinning, from sounding or smelling or acting too drunk in front of the driver.

The car pulls up in front of number fifty. Dean nudges his partner, tells him, “Hey, it's your stop.”

Sam is sunk into the door, his scarf up to his nose. Croaks, miserably, “Can I stay at your place? Tonight?”

The driver is waiting, and Smith and him make short eye contact in the rear view mirror before Smith shies away from it, glares at Sam first before he softens, sighs, sinks back into his seat. Grits, “Fine,” and gives his address next.

Dean's libido goes from contended to desperate to slightly bothered these days. They still haven't fucked since that Jessica-themed fight, since Dean breaking his tooth. Sam hasn't pushed the issue, seems okay with the occasional blow job. Whenever Dean thinks he might want to open that very figurative door again, something in him locks up, freezes, and he's disgusted by the thought. He feels like that right now, even though they're both dressed and Sam is more miserable than he is horny, or attractive, or anything.

Dean changes into his sleeping pants, tries to block out the noises Sam makes. He rarely ever gets this drunk, and never this upset. Dean doesn't know what to make of it but sheer panic. Surely one more mistake would be enough to make him snap. Even though he's the more sober one of them, Dean doubts he'd be able to push this very incapable version of Sam off if he'd have to.

“Here. Drink. It'll make you feel better.”

Sam chugs the glass of water without hesitation, but makes a face. “Aspirin?”

“Tomorrow. Try to sleep, okay?”

To Dean's relief, Sam lays down without another comment. He tucks him in, goes to brush his teeth, has a last leak before going to bed as well. Sam is sound asleep, out like a light. A dead weight, warm and smelling like the bar they left behind; didn't shower, or wash his face, or change out of his clothes.

Smith goes under (not) soon enough, but wakes what feels like even sooner, exhausted. Sweat is the first sensation he's aware of. Then: the quick kicks of his heart, the seizure in his muscles.

Sam is right there, and has one of his wrists gripped fast. Pets through Dean's hair with the other, and can barely get his eyes open he's still so asleep.

Hushes, “Shh, shhh,” and Dean's throat goes tight, and he's still panting for breath. “He's not here. He can't hurt you, alright?”

Smith croaks his okay, but can't curl into Sam's embrace either.

~

He talks himself into a salad for lunch. It goes down well enough that he treats himself to a fat-free dessert. Benny wrinkles his nose as he sees him tearing the plastic lid off. “Those are nasty. Not recommended.” Smith savors every spoonful. 

Smith blames it on the spring weather. Urges and nature, and all that shit. Flirts Sam into that familiar secluded bathroom and rubs him to fullness over his slacks before he even takes him out, and has Sam melting so sweet. Has those arms slung around him, holding him tight and one hand grabbing him in the front, one in the back; Sam has his fingers angled in so that he's basically fingering him, clothes or not.

Smith is up on tiptoes.

“God, baby. Miss you.” Sam digs his fingers in to make it evident what he's talking to. “You think maybe soon? Huh?”

Smith slurs, “I dunno,” and means it. Smears slick around the fat crown of Sam's cock just rough enough to not be sufficient.

“I'll be all careful. Promise.”

Dean snort-laughs. “Uh-huh. Sure you will.”

“I mean it. Take you apart, for hours. Till you can't think. Till all you need is me.” Smith purrs for the defter grip-tug on his cock. Closes his eyes, floats on the warmth, the fantasy. “Tie you up, like you like it. Flog you until a breath would be enough to make you blow. Then eat you out, nice and deep, before I fuck you.”

“Fuck, Sam.”

Sam's turn to chuckle. “Yeah, you'd like that.”

Sam lets him finish down his throat, and Dean returns the favor. Smith still washes his hands overly meticulously, side by side with him, bumping shoulders. Gets a kiss on the mouth and returns to his office, all refreshed and doesn't take the time to dwell in how happy he is. How things have slowly come back to where they should be, where he wants them to be.

Work, gym, home. Sam texts him around ten; he's had some kind of dinner event tonight, had started work earlier than Smith. He asks if Smith's still up, and Dean's thumbs hover for a moment before he types his reply.

The sound of keys right in front of his door startle the ever-loving shit out of him, but he's also laughing, somewhat relieved.

Sam says out loud, “Good,” while he types it, sends it. Dean sets his phone aside, goes to welcome him. Warm kisses, arms around that neck.

“Risky.”

“If you had been asleep I would have turned around, gone home.”

“Really now?”

“Really.” More kisses. “You know me. Mister Considerate.”

Dean laughs. “Oh, absolutely.” He lets go of him so Sam can take off his coat. He smells glorious underneath, has his hair done so nicely, a bow-tie still tucked tight around his long, tanned neck. Smith feels underdressed in his loungewear until Sam crowds him against the wall, slips his hand under the soft cotton of his sweatshirt. Today was chest day.

“Can I help you with anything, sir?”

Sam's smile deepens. “Remember what we talked about earlier?”

“Hm.” Smith gets his hands on the fly of Sam's dress pants, cups him while he unhooks it. “Refresh my memories, why don't you.”

“You're gonna get fucked tonight.” Zipper, hook, sink. “Got everything we need. If you're still up for it.”

Slow drag, root to tip. Hard as a rock, pure silk. Dean's body screams in all kinds of ways. “I wanna try,” he admits, “just. I hope I won't freak out. It's been a while.”

“It has been, yeah.” Sam's lids droop, and he shoves another hand underneath the thin layer of clothes on Dean. He drags his tongue slow and deep into his mouth, pushes his cock through Dean's grip. “I brought your collar. Take your clothes off, put that on for me, alright?”

“Yeah.” Shit. Shit, this is happening.

Dean does as he is told and only remembers to be embarrassed once Sam suggests the living room. Hears, “I wanna see you right,” and only reluctantly lets Sam pull his protective-covering hands away.

“Not a pretty sight,” he warns, but Sam insists, “You're perfect,” even though Smith's an almost-forty-year-old twiggy-wrinkly pile of bones. Dean can avoid thinking about how he looks as long as he wants but he's capable of awareness that roughly two weeks back on solid food and workouts cannot outweigh weeks of malnourishment. 

Sam gestures for him to kneel, and Dean does so. Lets Sam cup his jaw with both of his hands, make him look up at his face, crane his neck.

“Sweet, pretty Dean.” (Sam says it with so much adoration that Dean close-to flushes.) He rubs his thumb over Dean's bottom lip, splits his mouth open like that. “We're gonna have some fun tonight, you and me. Are you excited?”

“Yeah. S-sir.”

Sam's cock is still poking out of his pants. It ticks close to Dean's face, yet out of reach. “You wanna play this right, don't you. Whole nine? Need me to take care of you, isn't that true?”

“Yessir.” Dean feels small, then bigger when the thumb returns, pushes past his teeth. He sucks on it, eyes still on Sam, on the barely-there tremor in that face.

Hears, “Good,” and the grip around the left side of his head tightens some. “That's good. I can do that.”

A sudden but light pat on his cheek, and Sam leaves him behind to rummage through the bag he brought. He returns rolling sleek red bondage rope around his knuckles and tells Dean to hold his arms up in front of his chest, wrists to shoulders. He kneels down and begins to fasten Dean's arms like that, just enough play so they aren't bent uncomfortably. If he relaxes his arms, his hands hang limp. Like a begging dog.

Sam goes to fasten Dean's wrists on the D-link of his collar to create an even more restricted range. Dean cannot roll his arms outwards now, can't reach much lower than the upper half of his chest. The old excitement is creeping back. That he's helpless, dependent on Sam taking the ropes off again eventually.

“On your back,” hums Sam, and helps him lowering down on the rug. Dean's never considered the comfort of his furniture and dreads that now, buck-naked on what turns out to be one stylish but scratchy thousand dollars worth of decoration. It's distracting, but at least not cold like the naked tiled floor surrounding them.

“Do you want the blindfold? I got it right here, but I figured you'd like to take it slow.”

“Yeah. I, I wanna see you.”

“Figures.” Sam retrieves another length of rope, smirks down at him. “Good thing I got Dad's hair, huh.”

Dean is too on edge now to reply with more than a chuckle. Is caught up, floating already. Huffs, feels his semi-hard cock rolling over his pelvis when Sam lifts his left leg, secures calf to thigh, and strings that package to Dean's collar as well. It allows enough movement for him not to pull on his neck and bend him, especially once Sam did the other side and gets the spreader bar to hold his knees apart. Dean's cock is fully erect now, lying there passively. Dean's breath has turned shallow, soft. It's been such a long day, but he isn't tired. More like, calm?

Sam worships him quietly, with light touches of his hands. Kneels in front of him, runs palms over backs of thighs, down the crack of his ass, over his junk up to his chest. Gropes there, absently, and Dean's eyes droop for it.

“I brought a gag that wouldn't be touching your teeth. Plain leather, buckles behind your head. Would that be okay?”

“I'm, uh. Yeah. Okay? Can you show me?”

“Of course.” Sam goes to get the object in question, holds it out for inspection. “It's soft, it wouldn't cut into your mouth or anything.” He holds it close enough for Dean to rub the material between thumb and forefinger, and Dean ends up nodding. “Yeah, I can put it on?” Dean nods again, and opens his mouth.

It doesn't cut into his skin but is not comfortable either. It hold his mouth apart, and his tongue cannot rest in the front of his mouth. It adds to the already-there restrictions, to the thrill of it, and it's no threat at all to his teeth. Dean relaxes further into the uneven surface of the rug.

He gets a rubber ball folded into his palm. “Drop this in case you need me to stop.”

Oh. Clever.

The stroking continues, and lulls Dean into the tenderness of the moment. Into the heaviness of his bound limbs, the aborted twitches of his sex whenever Sam touches or not-touches it. The urge to lift his hips whenever Sam rubs over his asshole too hard, too insistent.

A swishing noise, accompanied by Sam, far away, “I'm gonna start now,” and Dean doesn't understand until the tails of the flogger trail up his lower stomach. It tickles more than it does anything else, still cool from not-use. The tails lick over his cock and he huffs, feels spit trickling out of the corner of his mouth on the side he's got his head tilted to.

The first few hits are too weak to even be called that. Warm-up, maybe a slight pinch, lighter than a flick of a finger. Sam concentrates on his stomach, his buttocks, the insides of his thighs. He gets one directly on his balls and startles for the first time, blinks just to see Sam's gone-deep expression, and closes his eyes again.

He's okay. You're okay. This is nice, isn't it?

The pace picks up so slowly there is no pain at any point, just heat, irritated skin. It's a deep burn that makes Dean's thighs quiver eventually, quickens his breath and pulse. Every movement stirs his bondage, doesn't let him go anywhere; reminds him. Smith submits, readily, to the sensations—safe, warm, let go, just feel.

The flogger stops eventually. Warm-cool breath blows over the worst of Dean's skin, little nips of teeth that make his muscles jump, a lick to the inside of his thigh just shy of his taint.

“I'll go grab a blanket real quick. Be right back.”

Dean thinks he makes some kind of approving noise. Grunts, surprised, when Sam starts lifting him, carrying him. He gets laid out on his kitchen table, the promised blanket underneath him protecting bare skin from cold wooden surface.

Hears, “Yeah, that's better,” and gets tugged until his ass is barely-not tipping over the edge of the table, presented perfectly. Sam thumbs at his asshole and Dean's body tries to push into the touch. He knows what comes next, and Sam takes just enough time to really make him tingly for it.

Sam pulls one of the chairs out to seat himself comfortably, settle in. Runs his hands over Dean's ass, so quiet again, rubs and pulls and blows breaths over it until Dean is positive he's gonna crawl out of his skin once it's finally happening.

Sam kisses at it sweet, first. Too-tender, and rubs his thumbs over the folds of it too hard in contrast. Flicks his tongue out just so, and Dean is quivering already.

If Sam would jerk him off, or just lay a finger on him, he'd come from this. But Sam doesn't, is apparently zeroed in on his asshole and intent on driving Dean insane, because that's what's happening. Dean is doing his best to squirm into the attention, make Sam do it harder, faster, whatever. By the time he gets that, together with a loud squirt of lube and two fingers at once that dive straight for his prostate, he's close to actually vocalizing his needs.

As it is, shakes, miserably, impaled on two slick perfectly fat fingers, and meets Sam's blissed out expression between his spread legs.

“Need to make sure you're wet enough. All the way.” Sam says that while he's scissoring his fingers, creates a gap to dump more lube inside of and scoop that up deep. “You never have me missing pussy. I've got it right here.”

Smith feels puddle-ish by the time Sam gets up, strips out of his clothes. Feels him return and tries to scoot down the table some more, get closer to him, but Sam holds him fast with only one hand, uses the other to jack his cock with the slick he's got left. 

“I'll take all the time in the world,” he promises, lines himself up and start pushing in.

Slurs, “Fuck,” like it hurts. “Feels so good.”

Dean contracts his sphincter on purpose despite it hurting like a bitch; it gets him Sam stuttering, groaning, smirking.

“You little shit.”

More inches that stretch him out, fill him so heavy. Sam makes him feel everything, every pulse, every nub of a vein, every curve. Pulls back just so the flared head catches nice, and Dean whimpers on the deep lunge forward.

“I'll use you all night if I feel like it. Just leave you here, come back when I need to, huh? You'd let me. Shit, you'd let me.”

The possibility makes both Dean's dick and stomach lurch, and Sam must feel it, because he's shifting his grip to anchor on Dean's hips now. Hums, pleased, and slops in-out just a little faster, changes the angle to get a tighter fit. 

Keeps muttering, “Shit, shit,” and Dean watches him lose it, chuckles into his gag, all cocky between hitches of breath himself.

Sam doesn't get all of it in until he's been fucking him well for a while, and groans deep once he bottoms out, shoves all air left in Dean out on both ends to Dean's mortification and his own entertainment.

“Nothing in here but me now,” he croons, and presses his hand down so hard over Dean's lower stomach that Dean can feel palm and cock rubbing against each other between the little fat he's got left. Hears, “Oh, shit. You feel that? _God_.”

Dean can't catch his breath, Sam makes sure of that. Pounds him hard enough for the sturdy table to start skittering, that hand still pressed to feel himself so deep down Dean's guts, mesmerized, fascinated.

“Oh pet, you're so little, look at that, I'm right there.” 

Dean cranes his neck, and feels dizzy-sick with the unmistakable bulge appearing-disappearing in time with Sam's thrusts. Hiccups, because Sam's going for the end spurt now, screws into him so hard so good he's on the cusp of climax, would only need a brush of a finger, and—

Sam's hand wraps around his cock and Dean's coming off the table despite his bonds, howls because it's all too much, too fast, and Sam's still fucking himself to completion in that blind way of his. Doesn't stop jerking him off until Dean is truly bucking, and grabs his free hip, slams them together so hard Dean swears he comes again just due to the brutal pressure on his prostate.

Once Sam starts coming, he stops moving his hips, but instead uses his grip on Dean to move him on his cock in short, milking motions. Like Dean is a true toy indeed.

“God. It won't stop. You'll be all bloated with that.” High-slurred, still pumping, and the small part of Smith's brain coming back online is terrified by the idea, but the biggest part is still sex-drunk and lazy and more than okay with whatever he's being put through.

The first thing Sam removes is the gag, and the second is his still idly-twitching cock. Last goes the rubber ball, forgotten and still clamped in Dean's hand. Sam rubs his soreness better and encourages circulation, kisses and pets his mouth whenever he can.

“How do you feel?”

“Like I need to go to the bathroom, actually.” More air escapes, together with a burst of come, and Dean half-dies while Sam helps him to the bathroom. “This is disgusting.”

“It's normal.”

“No, actually it's your fault. When you pull out all the time, that, it, y-you get all that air in, and.”

Dean curls over, seated on the toilet, going through another cramp. Sam turns the shower heavier, but Dean can still hear him chuckling.

In bed, Sam is clingy. Rubs between Dean's asscheeks, tells him, “That feels so sore.” But kisses and nibbles at Dean's neck and ears until Dean allows him to finger him, again. And Dean doesn't interfere with Sam getting up, getting the lube. Rolls over on his stomach so Sam can hump him like that, pack him deep, keep chewing on him while he does.

Sam catches him fumbling with the ring and slides it on Dean's finger, mid-fuck, securely.

 


	26. Chapter 26

“It’s funny that you’re calling. I had a dream about you last night.”

_“Oh, really? Kinky.”_

“No, not like that.”

_“What kinda dream then?”_

“I don’t remember much. I just know you were there, s’all.”

_“Did I kill you again?”_

“You know what, I shouldn’t have told you about that one.”

Jo laughs and Dean smiles, flips through pages and points to his headset when Novak prompts to come inside.

“Anyway—did you want something? I’m in the middle of something right now, I could call you back later? … Jo? Hey. Hey.”

Smith sets the papers aside, gets up, rounds the table; he has to move somehow right now. Touches the earpiece like she can somehow feel it all the way across the country.

“Did something happen?”

She manages, _“No,”_ in between hiccuped sobs. _“No, I don’t, uh. I dunno, I’m—it’s getting worse again, and I, I don’t know what to do.”_

“Are you alone right now?”

_“I’m at Mom and Dad’s,”_ she says, and he can hear her big smile as clear as he can hear her struggling for breath.

Dean nods. “That’s good, that’s good. They know?”

_“Yeah, we talked before I took the plane. Mom called off work and everything so we could stay at the Port Orange house, a-and Dad’s gonna fly down tonight. Oh, Dean—”_ She falls into wordless sobs again.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s not your fault.”

_“It’s all too much. I don’t know what to do.”_

“Hey, take it easy now. I need you to calm down, okay? Does Melanie know, did you—”

_“Yes,”_ Jo sobs. _“I have my medication, everything, but it won’t work, it won’t go away—”_

“If you need me to fly down—”

_“No! God, no, I can’t ask that of you—”_

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He shoos Novak out again, hurries back to his desktop to navigate through CS’ calendar software. “I can make it this Friday.” More clicks, while he talks. “I’m buying tickets as we speak, okay? You still there?”

Small-tired, _“Yeah,”_ sniffled. _“You really don’t have to...”_

“I’ll be there at eleven at night, everything else is already full, shit.”

_“Thank you.”_

“Don’t you dare mention it, you idiot.” Dean finishes the booking process and hits ‘send’. Sits back in his chair, wipes his palm over his mouth. Another call is coming in and Novak’s silhouette waits behind the blinds just outside of Dean’s office. “I’ll call you again tonight, okay?”

_“Yeah, okay.”_

“Hang tight, alright? Take it easy. Let Mom pamper you to death, no discussion. I love you, okay? You can do this.”

_“Thank you.”_

“I gotta go, bye.”

_“Thank you, bye.”_

“Okay, Novak,” he hollers, one hand already back on the keyboard, “make it quick!”

~

“You’re not with me.”

The blindfold is torn off his face and Dean avoids those eyes. He made it through two days on borrowed time.

“What’s going on. Tell me.”

He tries, sighing already, “I’m just tired. I don’t know what you expect, man, we’ve been at it for like an hour now.”

“You’re not hard.”

Dean scoffs.

Sam tosses the whip aside and wipes the sweat out of his eyes. “Come on, spit it out. Is it something I did?”

“I told you, I’m beat.” He’ll have to tell him eventually, of course, but he’d rather postpone that until after the plane has taken off. He shifts in his bondage, knees wobbly in their attempt not to let him fall. Says, “Look, can we just wrap this up? Are gonna fuck me or what?”

Sam glares now. Dean can practically hear the gears ticking.

Dean rolls his eyes, his shoulders too (as far as he can). Grunts, “It’s family business, okay? I’ll spend the weekend with them, take care of some stuff, and fly right back. There. You happy?”

“You could have told me. We’ve been talking about me meeting them for a while now.”

“You’re not coming.”

“Why not?”

Dean raises his eyebrows and wriggles his chained-to-the-ceiling arms. “Really? _Really_?”

Sam rolls the sleeves of his dress shirt down. “I graduated from Stanford law school,” he grits, “I have been raised on the strictest of social manners, I speak five languages. I’m the CEO of one of the biggest companies in the country, I’m—kinda—young,” he nods to himself, “and fairly okay looking, so—yeah, Smith, enlighten me: why are you so ashamed of me?”

“As far as my folks are concerned, I’m a normal guy, dating normal women; end of story. Would you untie me already, my shoulders are killing me.”

“You should hear yourself talk.” Sam unbuckles the cuffs with rough yanks. “If you’re so disgusted, why did you start going out with me in the first place?”

“Because you basically gave me no choice!”

“What? Bullshit.”

Dean rubs his wrists, cracks his shoulder. “You said,” he insists, “that we keep going or I can walk out on you. No in-between.”

Sam frowns, glares. “I never said that.”

“Oh, yeah, sure, right. I’m making it all up, aren’t I? Crrraaaazy Dean!”

He throws his arms in the air for emphasis, but Sam has already turned and leaves the room. Dean shouts, “Yeah, screw you too, asshole!” after him and is left with getting rid of the spreader bar between his feet by himself. The front door bangs while he’s starting his shower, and he ignores it.

~

The flight is scheduled for tonight, eight-thirty PM. He might have to skip the gym to take care of the work he’d usually take home for the weekend. Jo says she’s already better, insists how he really doesn’t have to put himself out on her account, but he knows how much it means to her to have him over in times like this.

“You think I’m gonna embarrass you.”

Dean keeps assaulting his laptop here in the limousine, on the way to work, doesn’t spare glance; there’s no time. “Look, it’s just a weekend, alright? I’ll let you do whatever once I’m back, I don’t care, okay? Just don’t make this any harder for me than it already is. You think I want to waste my time sitting around, listening to them gossiping and nagging?”

“Did something happen?”

“What?”

“Did someone die or something?”

Dean looks up now, not any less ready for any kind of bullshit before his third espresso of the day.

Sam isn’t sour—rather seems… _concerned_. It’s the polite thing to do, just not the Sam-thing. He’s facing him from the row of seats Dean hasn’t claimed as his working space. “I mean, ever since I’ve known you, you’ve never visited them. So I figure it’s serious, or you wouldn’t be going.”

Dean sneers. “Alright there, Sherlock.”

“You’re trying not to let it show but it freaks you out.”

Dean keeps typing. Mutters, “I’m not freaking out.” Two red lights later, harder: “You know, you always act like you know everything, and it pisses me off.”

Sam remains quiet.

“How about you focus on your own fucked-up life before you start walking around like you’re the miracle cure to every-fucking-thing.”

This gets him a silent rest of the drive. Sam only ever tries to re-engage the conversation once they’re leaving the car, turns and is obviously about to say something. Stops himself though, says, “Nevermind,” and walks ahead far enough that Dean couldn’t catch him in the elevator if he tried.

Even Rhonda eyes him concernedly. His coffee consumption might be a giveaway. And yeah, maybe he _is_ worried, maybe he _is_ freaking out; can you blame him? He’ll have to make it to the airport in time, pray there’s no delay, power through a weekend of pretending everything is sunshine and rainbows. God, please just let her be okay. Let it just be a momentary little crisis, not a full-blown relapse. He’s not in the best place himself with that shit. You’re supposed to be a role model, goddammit.

He crams in a protein bar around noon. By the time it’s dark out, Sam hasn’t bothered him once, even went out of his way when Dean had required his professional opinion. Well, let him sulk. Dean has more urgent problems right now.

Dean shuts his PC down last minute, locks his office and jogs to the elevator, his weekend bag dangling from the one and his work bag from the other shoulder, and he’s in between, desperate. He sinks against the wall once he’s in the elevator, has spammed the ‘close’ button for the doors repeatedly. There’s stomping and then a hand, jamming into the barely-there gap, followed by a foot.

Sam slips into the once-again open doors and re-presses the ‘close’ button.

“Oh, come _on_!”

“I’ll drive you so we can catch the jet. It’ll be faster. We’re taking the Porsche.”

“Stop being ridiculous. Or, better yet: stop, generally.”

“You’re right about everything you said in the car.” Sam turns. His jaw is set, and his brows are furrowed. “I’m being an asshole, but at least let me help.”

“No, thanks. I’m good.”

“This is not optional. You keep telling me to fuck off, you’ll just burn yourself out, and I’ll still come along.”

The elevator pings in celebration of having reached its destination and the doors slide open silently. At this hour, the halls are long deserted.

Sam re-shoulders his own bag and holds out the keys. “I’ll let you drive if you ask nicely.”

~

“You’re not gonna talk to anyone—”

“Of course not.”

“—especially not my parents—”

Sam shake-nods his head. “Silent as a grave.”

“—and we’re _friends_. Okay? You’re my _friend_. From _work_. We met at Stanford—”

“When I had just started and you had almost finished. We’re the straightest, most boring men alive, got it.”

Dean hopes his boyfriend can classify the severity of his pained expression in his peripheral whilst going eighty on I-95. “Please,” he sighs, “don’t ruin this.”

“Oh, what is there to ruin? Your plan is so bulletproof.”

“The next exit is ours,” Dean grumbles.

Sam pulls them to a stop in front of the vacation home the Smiths acquired several years ago when Dad had just sold the business and felt like they had to live up (at least a little) to their bank balance. Decently sized, not too much, enough to house the occasional gathering. Dean brought Lisa and Ben here a few times; the beach isn’t far and the neighborhood is frighteningly friendly.

He can see their silhouettes starting to move behind the curtains as soon as the car has pulled up in the driveway. He gets out, opens the back door to grab his bag while Sam is rounding the car. A last time, hissed: “Don’t fuck this up for me, you promised.”

Sam leans into him, pats him on the back. “Sure thing,” and kisses him on the mouth.

The turn Dean makes towards the house feels like slow motion, and it might be dark but the street lights are meticulous. His parents stare back at him from the porch. Some horrible moments pass just like that.

He hears Ellen sigh, grumble under her breath, “Great, now I owe Hannah fifty bucks.”

Dad hollers, “Hey there, kid,” and Dean counters, “Heyyy,” bag shouldered and hears Sam closing the trunk, following him. He hugs Ellen first, Bobby next. “Uh, this is…”

“Sam Wesson, nice to meet you.” Dean chooses to look at their handshakes instead of anyone’s face. Finds Chica wagging her tail, excited for the new company, trying to squeeze in between everyone’s knees at once. Sees Sam’s hand finding her head immediately, petting it enthusiastically. “What a beautiful house.”

“Oh, it’s just—the vacation home, y’know.”

“Dean! Oh!” Jo stops in the entryway, huge wine glass in hand. She’s staring top-left over Dean’s shoulder for as long as Ellen lets her, pulls her close.

“Hi, Joanne. We met before.”

“Hi. Yes. Hey.”

They shake hands before Dean can take over, wrap her in his arms. There’s an awkward silence settling over the crowd out here on the porch, part of it smelling like hours of wine, part of it like traveling and arguing for a good three hours.

Sam smiles. “Why don’t we head inside.”

Ellen elbows Smith, hard, when everybody’s already moving. Whisper-hisses, “You should’ve told me you were _bringing_ someone!”

“It wasn’t planned!”

They settle into the living room, everyone a little uptight with the unexpected outsider around. Dean gladly accepts Ellen’s offer of a glass of wine. Hears Sam’s smile in that, “Oh, yeah, thank you,” and empties half the glass down his gullet, asap.

His eyes dart to Jo, who’s seated on the sofa opposite to them, Dad next to her with his own drink, arm around her in silent support. She gives him a smile once their eyes meet. God, it’s been a long day. She looks alright, though.

“How was the flight?” Mom wants to know, and Dean supplies, “Good. No delays.” She tells him, “Oh, that’s good,” and he snatches the bottle to refill his glass.

It’s quiet for some sips until Sam begins to speak. “I’m sorry for barging in so unexpected. We should have given you notice.”

Mom insists, “Ah, no, it’s alright,” and Dad adds, “The more the merrier.”

Dean pours some more wine down his throat and refuses to look at anyone.

They get the second guest room. Dean can’t decide if he’s angrier than he is drunk or worried. He doesn’t announce that he wants to go straight to bed but instead makes a point out of disappearing into the bathroom, changing, brushing his teeth, et cetera—in sharp silence. Luckily (for everyone involved), Sam gets with the program and lets him sulk, occupies the bathroom once Dean has already buried himself in their bed with his back to the room (and thus Sam), facing the door. Sam joins him after turning off the lights, and the relief taking Dean over at the lack of body contact is unexpected but welcome.

It takes a while for Sam to fall under for good. Dean almost dozes off himself, maybe does, ever-so-lightly, but never too far.

He slips out—of the bed, the room.

Dean is pointedly quiet but Jo still stirs, despite the wine. They know each other too well. “Hm. Hey,” she mutters, rubs sweet at his arm as he curls around her from behind, big spoon. “What’s going on?”

“Can’t sleep.”

“Trouble in paradise?”

“Shut up.”

Jo strokes his forehead over her shoulder, his forearms where they’re wrapped around her. “Still can’t believe it.”

“What?”

“You, your boss.”

“Oh. Yeah. Same.”

“But you’re happy, right?”

“Yeah.”

“He seems real sweet though,” she says.

“I guess.”

“He likes you a lot. I can tell.” She turns around in his arms, hides her face in his neck. “You could have told me earlier, y’know. I’m not judging. Nobody here is.”

“I know.”

“Then why?”

“I don’t know.”

“You used to call less and less, but lately… It’s never been this bad. It’s like you’re dead. I mean, I’m fine, I know you’re holding up, wherever you are. Just…” Jo turns her eyes up to him. “They miss you. _I_ miss you.”

Dean looks straight at her. “I missed you guys too.”

Jo strokes his cheeks, his hair. “We used to tell each other everything. We never do that anymore. It makes me sad.”

“Can’t stay kids forever, Jo.”

“’S got nothing to do with being kids. You changed.”

“I work a lot.”

“Oh, come on. This isn’t about work.” She frowns as she traces Dean’s eyebrows with her thumbs. “What happened to my big brother?”

“You’re seeing ghosts.”

“The only ghost I see is you.” She hugs him again, full-body, arms and legs wound around Dean who returns the gesture gingerly. She mumbles, “You’re scaring me.”

“I’m telling you, I’m fine.”

Her fingers rub up-down his back—and bump over the scars. He realizes just when she does, when she hesitates, asks, “What is that?”

“Your sheets are giving me wrinkles.” Dean shuffles to lie on his back, pulls her halfway onto his chest. “And you’re crushing me. You turn into a monkey when I wasn’t looking?”

“Hm, Naomi _does_ like to play zoo.”

“And you’re the mama monkey?”

“Usually the zookeeper. She gets to have all the fun.” She gives him a lazy smile. “You should see her dolphin expression. It’s to die for, I swear to god.”

~

The morning starts with a shower. Their room is already deserted, a made bed—if Sam thinks this Cold Shoulder game goes both ways, well, screw him.

Dean comes downstairs to the image of Sam eating with Naomi who’s all pliant and loveable. Sam resembles some picture book image of a saint (but a saint in a white pinstripe Armani button down and a hundred-dollar haircut).

“Hey.”

Dean grumbles, “Hey,” and crosses the room with suspicion.

“You got some sleep?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Yeah. Your dad’s outside.” Sam nods to the kitchen counter. “Saved you a cup of coffee.”

“Thanks.” Dean takes the offering before he turns to stroke Naomi’s cheek. “Hey, sweetheart. Good morning.”

“Morning.”

“Sweetie, show your uncle how many peaches you’ve had.”

Naomi holds up three sticky fingers.

Dean gasps playfully. “That many!”

“And how much juice?”

Naomi makes a wide gesture with her hands and then arms: “So many!”

“Oh wow!”

“You, sir, have, without a doubt, the smartest little niece this world has ever seen.”

Dean smiles wide, pets the back of Naomi’s head and her shoulder. “I sure do.”

“Uncle Sam said we’ll go to the beach today! Are you coming too, Uncle Dee?”

Before Dean can say anything, Sam assures, “Of course he will. It’s a family trip, baby.”

Dean chokes back a comment for the sake of the moment. “Yeah. Wouldn’t miss it.” Sam smiles up at Dean at that, asshole, and Dean goes to pet Naomi’s head once more. “I’ll check on your grandpa, okay? Don’t make any trouble.”

Naomi reaches for another peach which Sam hands her across the table. “Nnnnever!”

Dean gives a last glance to Sam who is completely absorbed by the child, then heads outside to the porch.

Bobby is reading the newspaper, doesn’t look up at Dean but raises his eyebrow. “There’s our sleeping beauty.”

“Hey, I’m not the last one. Move an inch, will ya.”

“Yeah yeah.”

Dean sits down with a sigh once Bobby scoots to the side. He leans back, lets his gaze drift across the garden. “I forgot how beautiful it is out here in the summer.”

“All credit to your mom. She loves this house more than she loves her husband.”

“Now you’re being dramatic.”

“That’s what I was telling myself. Until I forgot to use one’a those goddamn coasters on ‘her’ coffee table. She had me sleep on the couch.” They both snort a laugh. Bobby puts the paper down and gives a side glance at Dean. “It’s good to see ya, son.”

“Good to see you too, old man.”

Dean pats his father’s knee, gives him a smile. Bobby’s grown older. It’s been some time since they’ve seen each other. Bobby smiles back, but Dean can tell there’s something between them. Nothing new, but it makes him more nervous now. He’s been dreading this exact scene for a while, after all.

He pulls his hand back, elbows on his knees. He tries keeping up the easy expression. “So,” he jokes, “let it out. C’mon.”

“Let what out?”

“Y’know.” Dean scoffs. “C’mon, Dad, it’s okay. I know you want to.”

Bobby’s eyes narrow. “You’re offending me. C’mon. I really look that Republican to you?”

Dean just scoffs again, turns to look at his hands instead of his father.

“I mean, it’s a surprise alright, but we’ll live, you know? As long as it keeps you goin’, it’s perfectly fine in my book.” Dean nods without looking at him. “But, uhm, not that a certain sum of money depends on it or anything, jus’... You the pitcher or the...?”

Dean does look up at that.

“That a yes or no? I’m confused. I mean, he has the long hair going, but you’re kinda, y’know—”

“Excuse me while I go bleach my ears.”

Jo trots out into the sun with a fresh cup of coffee, dressed in an airy summer dress. “That’s not how it works, Dad. Don’t you know anything? It’s not like one’s the woman and one’s the man. They, like, switch every other day. Right, Deano?”

Dean just glares.

Bobby tells her all stern, “Quit it, Joanne,” and turns to Dean once more. “But you’re the _man_ , right?”

Dean gets up with a painful groan and struts away, distantly hears, “Dad, he is so obviously the one getting it,” and a brittle, “Balls.”

~

Everything’s surreal. The sun, the heat, that his sister’s sick and relapsing and looking so perfectly alright, cradling her baby girl and laughing and actually eating food in front of a stranger. Mom’s pointed politeness, the fucking fear in her eyes. He forgot how it is, back home.

Dean rises from his seat when Jo excuses herself to the bathroom, but Ellen gets ahold of him and pulls him back, shakes her head, and Dean feels like a dog on a leash here. As always, Dad pretends not to have noticed anything.

Sam’s observation is obvious, like a constant weight on Dean, boring into the back of his head, but he has no time for this. This will have to come later.

They arrive at the beach around eleven AM and it’s not that packed yet, still enough space to find a quiet little space in the dunes. The Smith siblings, eager to get their vacation tan going, stride right into the sun while the parents remain underneath the protection of the sunshade. Chica and Naomi speed past him, a squealing and barking mini-army, and Sam is right behind them, still in his shirt but he traded his pants for swimming trunks at some point. They’re in the waves sooner than Dean can lie down, and Jo’s whispered, “Hot damn,” comes unexpected in so many ways.

“Can I rent him? For babysitting, I mean? And does it cost extra to have him do it, oh, I dunno, topless?”

Dean squints at the man in question. “I get the feeling he’d do it for free.”

“You could bounce a goddamn nickel off that thing.”

Dean gives his sister a disgusted look.

“What? I’m married, not braindead.” A short silence, probably full of stares. “I bet his dick is, like, the size of my forearm.”

“Oh my god.”

“It is, isn’t it? Oh my god, how do you even _sit_? When Victor does it to me, it’s always like—”

“Woah, no, nope, not gonna have this conversation, no, nuh-uh.”

He hears her laughing behind his now turned back, the loud, honest kind, and can’t help but feel proud for it. Yes. This. This is what he’s here for, this is what he can do. Take her mind off everything. Jo’s always done good under constant attention.

He feels a finger poking at his armpit. “Stop that.”

“You’re drenched. C’mon, off with that.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re gonna ruin your tan.”

“I don’t _have_ a tan, get lost.” He half-rolls back over when she keeps pulling at his shirt, trying to yank it off. He protects himself with both arms. “I said stop it! Goddammit!”

“C’mon, it’s just us girls.”

“Jo, I mean it. Stop.”

His little sister’s face goes a little blander, and suddenly he hates her huge sunglasses.

She’s still clinging to his shirt.

He tells her, carefully, quiet, “It’s not about that. Here,” he adds when she won’t reply, takes one of her tiny hands and wraps it around his arm. “See? I’m doing good. It’s fine, I just don’t feel like flashing the entire beach, okay?”

Jo says, “Wow,” all dull, absent, and Dean feels her fingers digging into his bicep. “Someone had their five-a-day, huh?”

Dean asserts, “Yeah. It’s, I’m. Told you, I’m fine.”

“That’s good.”

“How’re you holding up?”

“Oh, fine.”

“Jo…”

“No, I’m fine.” She shakes her head, pets his arm now. “You’re doing good. Please tell me you’re doing good.”

“I’m good, Jo.”

Jo whispers, “He’s helping you, right? Tells you to eat and stuff? Takes care of you?”

Dean croaks, “Yeah.”

“He’s so good for you. I’m so happy that you found someone like that. That you’re letting him reach out to you. That’s so, so good, Dean.”

The moment is interrupted by Sam who returns, asks if he can sit with them. They tell him sure, of course. Naomi takes over her mother and Dean is left hanging, sweating.

Jo asks Sam to rub her back and if that’s okay with Dean. Who, naturally, doesn’t mind, doesn’t see why not. Sam strips his soaked shirt off and then straddles Jo to massage tanning oil into her back.

She moans and exchanges knowing sunglasses-glances with Dean who punches her shoulder. She just laughs and Sam laughs as well.

Once he’s done with Jo, Sam turns to Dean. “You need anything?”

“Nah, I’m good.” Just don’t make a scene. Please, just don’t.

Sam smirks sheepishly, climbs from Jo. Just says, “Alright,” and Dean allows himself to deflate some more.

“Mommy, can I go play?”

“No, baby, please stay with us, okay? Give Mommy some more minutes and then I’ll—”

Sam is already getting up. “No, it’s fine, I’ll go. Come, sweetie, let’s go.”

“Is it really okay?”

“Are you kidding me? This is the best vacation ever!” Sam turns to the Golden Retriever and chases her towards the sea. “C’mon, girl, yeah, c’mon!” And off he goes.

Jo groans, flops down on her towel. “Is it cheating if it’s with my brother-in-law?”

Dean gets the worst sunburn. Sam looks sun-kissed and stupid-handsome and Dean hates him with every fiber that’s not adoring him.

It’s like the man’s soaking up all the sun to keep it just under his skin; he’s so awake, constantly touching the dog or the kid, and it’s almost like Dean’s not that important anymore, at least for now. What a weird thought. Most definitely not to be trusted.

He joins the ‘adults’ for the cooler, the beer in it, stays for the shade, the view. He’s the first to talk.

“You been in touch with Melanie? What does she say?”

“To keep an eye on her. It’ll even itself out, she says. As it always does.” Mom nods into her beer.

“‘To keep an eye out’,” repeats Dean. “You mean like earlier, after breakfast?”

She glares at him. “She needs to know we trust her.”

“No, she needs to not throw up her meals!”

“You know how stubborn she is.”

“Yeah, exactly!”

“Hey, tone it down a bit, would ya?”

Dean takes a deep gulp from his bottle, squints over at the lot in the water. He shakes his head. “You should’ve called me earlier. This is bullshit.”

“She was with you.” Ellen rises to sit straight, points a well-manicured finger at Dean. Her voice rumbles deep and hurt. “She visited you, you _saw_ her, you did _nothing_. You think she tells _me_ anything?”

“I didn’t—” He stops, gathers himself. “We can’t let this happen again. We’ll, I’ll. We’ll figure this out. She has a kid now, this… Where the fuck even is _he_ , huh? Where the fuck is _he_?”

Dad grunts dismissively, and Mom shakes her head with her mouth all set into a grim smile.

“Fucking great,” grumbles Dean. He sits back, rubs at his chin, lips at his beer. He shakes his head. “I should’ve talked her out of this bullshit marriage. I should have.”

“As if she would have listened.”

Hell. She wouldn’t have. But he should have tried.

~

The guest bathroom is very fucking small. Could be bigger and Dean would still end up claustrophobic, probably, with Sam crammed in here next to him.

He agrees to the joined shower just because he can’t stand another second of being this sweaty nor smelling the beach on Sam.

Sam’s got him with his back to the tiles so quick Dean’s going a little light-headed; feels the heat burning underneath-on Sam’s skin, the weight of his eyes.

The water is too hot, and Dean hisses.

“Sorry, sorry. Better?”

Dean nods, cradles his arm under the adjusted water. Sam joins in on that, rubs at sparse hairs, lines of freckles.

He says, honestly, “I thought you’d never let me touch you again.”

“Well, maybe I won’t.”

“Touching you right now, aren’t I.” Sam comes a little closer, until his swelling dick is nestled nice against Dean’s leg.

Dean complains, “You’re filthy,” and Sam suggests, “Wash me, then.”

“You’re unbelievable.” And yet he’s reaching for the shower gel. “I’m not touching _that_.”

He gets Sam off with his hand, turns his mouth away when Sam wants to kiss it. Turns his body away when Sam starts pawing at him to try and get a grip on him, mutters, “No,” and hopes Sam won’t push it. “Not here, c’mon.”

“Where? And when?”

“Stop it. We’re not having this discussion right now.”

“It’s been so fucking long.” Sam groans the words like they hurt him. Dean churns his more-than interested dick into the tiles, tucks his hips in so this isn’t an offering. “You sick of me now? Is that it?”

“It’s just, not the time, to. God, didn’t you just, s-stop rubbing it on me, you’re—not a fucking dog. Stop. I’m getting out of here. You’re being ridiculous.”

Sam lets him. Crowds against him after toweling himself dry, after Dean’s already dressed. Pushes his face into the back of Dean’s neck until Dean has to tell him, “Stop,” again.

Sam dresses effortlessly, different. Still high-shelf but loose, informal. Dean doesn’t know what to make of all the changes. Of the softness Sam emits now, amongst Dean’s folks, the kid. There’s something very wrong, and Dean feels skittish with the urge to spot the fault.

In combination with the usual family fuck-up, it’s a lot.

Jo’s not talking. Dismisses with smiles and teases and jokes when he pulls her aside, asks her honestly, Jo, what’s going on, how are you doing, and it all starts feeling like a bad dream, completely out of reach. Like nobody’s listening, or he’s missing all the cues.

They have dinner at the same restaurant his parents have frequented ever since they got the house down here. Dean knows the menu by heart, knows which bourbon his dad will order, which dish Jo will choose, which dish he will choose. Sam took him aside before they got on the way, asked if he thinks his parents will let him take over the bill tonight. Dean told him sure, why not, and finds himself neck-deep in work-thoughts by the time the waiter arrives at their table; states his order, sits a little straighter, blinks towards his company.

“—yeah, and, it’s funny too, because I just recently…”

He has no idea for how long Sam’s been talking. About what. Whom.

Dean shifts his gaze over to Jo who’s politely listening, her fingers absently following the long stem of her glass, chin on her knuckles. She’s wearing a long, flowy dress, has her hair down to the middle of its low-cut back. She looks as gorgeous as she looks tired, defeated. Trying.

He reaches out to hold her; gets her wrist, then her attention to his thumb rubbing circles into the protruding bones. Jo meets his eyes like a drowning sailor would gaze at that one, lonely lighthouse.

Dean throws silent questions and she replies with a smile, a reassuring squeeze. _I’ll be alright._

His free hand gets touched, then covered, and Dean didn’t see that coming.

Turns to look over at Sam, who’s focused soft on him, and Dean’s about to ask what the hell is wrong with him when he realizes oh, yeah, right, they’re in public.

“I’m very lucky,” announces Sam, and Dean’s torn between wanting to hear the words and shoveling a hole in the ground to hide in it. “I feel like the longer we know each other, the more we grow. As one, together.”

Mom inquires, “How long have you two been together?”

“Little more than a year now.”

“Oh really?” Mom gives Sam a surprised look over the rim of her wine glass, and an unimpressed one to Dean. “You really could have told us, honey.”

Dean gives her a grimace (that she mirrors).

“It’s hard for him. But I understand that now.” Sam’s thumb circles over the back of Dean’s hand and Dean feels a lot like pulling away from the touch. “It’s been a hard time for him,” tells Sam, and something in Dean perks up at that. “I don’t blame him.”

“The job, the move, yeah.” Bobby nods in Dean’s peripheral. “He’s always been a workaholic but when he got this job… Hell, it’s a lot of responsibility.”

“Not to mention the break-up with Lisa.”

“Mom.”

“What? You _loved_ that girl. Sam,” she insists, “it’s so nice to see you having patience with him. Just—you two, don’t overwork yourselves, alright? Whenever you need a break, feel free to come down here, enjoy the beach. Work isn’t everything, you hear me, boys?”

Dad raises his glass for that.

“That’s very kind of you, Ellen. Thank you. We’d love to.”

~

Mom only ever smokes after the second bottle. She looks like some kind of film star when she does, all melancholic and her eyes unfocused. Dean used to think she was beautiful.

The garden is cold, damp, at night.

He takes her smoke from between her fingers to have a draught himself.

“How are you holdin’ up, honey?”

Dean nods towards the grass, the fence.

“Havin’ any of those bad dreams lately?”

Dean shakes his head, takes another go at the smoke. “I’m good.”

“That’s good,” she says. He hands her back the cigarette; she smokes, sits with him in silence. Until she gathers herself, starts again, “You know,” and the slur is barely audible but it’s there, in the quiet hush she speaks when they’re by themselves like this, like something is always about to jump them, “when I saw him, I thought—if that’s a good idea, for you? Considering—”

“It’s really different.”

“Is it?”

Ellen pins him down with her eyes, the worried set of her expression. He insists, “Yeah. Seriously.”

She lets him off eventually, turns to look at her knees, dips away ashes. Shakes her head minutely, sighs. “It’s, just. I thought you’d, you know. It’d make sense if you wouldn’t want to be near any guy again. But, he turns up and, suddenly, poof! Hey, Mom and Dad, surprise, here’s my long-term boyfriend! I’m cured!”

“I’m not—what does that even _mean_.” He narrows his eyes at her, scoffs, runs his hand over his face. “‘Cured’. Like I’m, s-some kind of.”

“No, oh, baby, not like that. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It’s not the same,” decides Dean. “I’m _choosing_ this. This is what I _want_.” Again, sincere, “I’m good.” Nodding, again. “I’m fine.”

~

“You never told me drinking was so common in your family. But I guess it explains quite a few things.”

Dean’s wavering, frowns at Sam, keeps unbuttoning his shirt in the dark. “Like your folks don’t have problems.”

“Addiction is hereditary. Did you know that?”

“If you could shut up for the next eight to ten hours, that’d be awesome.”

“Had she been drinking while she was pregnant with you? Or your sister?” Dean’s missed the time it took Sam to get up from the bed, press up against him from behind. Sam’s hands are cold but his breath is warm. “Or did it start when you two were kids?”

“Storytime is over. I’m tired.”

“You don’t have to do anything.” Sam covers Dean’s crotch with his hand and curls his fingers in. “Just lie down. I can tell what you’re thinking anyway.”

Dean grunts something between a moan and a laugh. “Like a psychic.”

“Exactly.”

“So what am I thinking?”

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

“Hm. ‘Get me off. Shut your mouth.’” Sam jostles his grip on Dean’s junk, and Dean’s thighs shake with it. “‘I don’t want everyone to hear me coming my brains out so hurry up, make it quick.’ Sound about right to you?”

Dean’s groaning into the wall, now. “Yeah.”

“You’re gonna have to let me fuck you.”

“No.”

“What ‘no’?”

“Not, my.”

“Not in your ass?”

Dean nods, eyes closed.

“You’re so wasted your mouth doesn’t even close right,” informs Sam.

Dean expels a helpless breath.

“Lie on the bed, stomach-down. Let me take care of everything else.”

Sam helps him with the clothes he’s still not managed to get out of, and Dean’s face hits the pillows heavy.

He slips his eyes shut. He thinks he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why yes I _did_ name the Smiths' family dog after Markiplier's doggo, you cannot fight me.


End file.
